


Some Secrets About Love

by bulletandsophia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8615614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletandsophia/pseuds/bulletandsophia
Summary: Some love stories are often times left at peace in corners of vast rooms. Sometimes, it only passes through the faint whispers and light touches of lovers at night. Sometimes, it is a glare. Sometimes, in the eyes of a stranger, it's not even there.
Or is it?





	1. Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Some short drabbles.

She is sitting near the fireplace, threads and needles and linen on hand, working tirelessly over a complicated pattern; a frown on her face from all the concentration but breathing deep and steady. A stray lock of red hair also curls near her ear and the gush of the winter wind taints her cheeks with a faint blush.

The calmness that surrounds Sansa and of the tableau she situated herself in overwhelms Jon.

The simplicity of the image beckons a vision of the future he secretly longs for. A life where her only worries were torn clothing and of the castle’s granaries and stock.

No, she need not worry about wights and lions and dragons; or of walls threatening to crumble down. No, Jon wishes–fights–for the day where Sansa Stark can once again bask in the simplicity and the wonder of her embroidery and her songs and her poetry.

But isn’t that already his tunic she was mending? Was it not her soft humming he heard in the Great Hall? Her laughter that rang in the courtyard when Sam treated her with a new anecdote?

At first he does not notice how he has been standing at the entrance of her solar, unmoving and unspeaking, for quite some time that he only blinks when he finally hears her.

“Jon?”

A soft smile adds into the scenario, both from his lips and from hers.

Sansa motions for him to come closer and gods be good to him, but he has already forgotten why he’s there in the first place.

He takes a seat right next to her and breathes.

She hands him a new handkerchief from her pile.

A gray direwolf. Jon looks up and there it is, another smile.

He can only grin in return.

He ponders as Sansa returns to her work and he silently watches her, allowing himself to feel the pleasure in the knowledge that perhaps, despite all the guilt and the confusion and the queries, it’s still going to be a good day.

* * *

 


	2. Favorite

They are dining in the Great Hall.

Around, Sansa hears the laughter of the Lords and Ladies of the North, the rambunctious chortles from the Free Folk, and to her surprise, the straight and unbuckling speech of Podrick as he (quite) drunkenly speaks with one of the serving ladies.

It was a trying afternoon during the council meeting. The Northern Lords were hard to please the same way the Free Folks were hard to tame. But in the end, all talks of land and politics died down the moment Jon spoke of the Others.

“There are more pressing matters.” he said then. “Thrones and kingdoms can wait.”

And so all her people– _his people_ –succumbs into this period of rest and merry instead. They dine today, they fight tomorrow, they debate some other day.

“Eat.” Jon whispers beside her. “Or the lords may think you are not enjoying your northern meal.”

Sansa laughs. “It is not my favorite stew.”

“Shall I call for the cook to prepare something else?” Jon inquires, almost in the act of standing up.

“Do not bother, Jon. This will do.”

He nods but still looks at her warily. “You are the lady of the House, Sansa. You can ask for whatever you want.”

She turns to look at him–all gray and black; his hair bunched up at the back of his head with a leather tie he absently took from her stitching basket a few days ago. Sansa gazes at Jon and can only see one thing:

Her family.

She almost chokes out words she knows haunts them both: _Ned, Robb, Rickon, Arya and Bran,_ _her mother Catelyn even…_

She wants them all. She wants them all back.

Her silence triggers something in him for he frowns, eyebrows almost touching, lines appearing on his forehead. So Sansa forgoes her thoughts. It is not proper to mourn in front of the other Lords.

Perhaps later, when she is alone…

“Sansa?” Jon slowly reaches for her. She could see his hand making its way to where hers rest on her lap.

“I may have drank more wine that I could handle.” says she as an excuse. But his frown does not go away.

“Jon Snow,” a voice interrupts. And Sansa knows only one person could dare. Jon gazes away but not without rolling his eyes.

“ _Tormund._ ”

The burly man chuckles back. “Would you care to join your men for some round of goat’s milk? You kneelers could probably use some real drink what with this poor excuse of a fancy drink you call aged ale and wine.”

Tormund does not even give Jon a chance to reply. The Wildling grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him from his chair. “That’s it, Crow. Stand up and be a man. _Be our King ‘n tha North!_ ”

The room erupts with more cheers and laughter.

Jon shakes his head as he pushes Tormund away from the table and turns his gaze back to her. Finally, he takes her hand and gives a soft but firm squeeze.

“Will you be fine?” he whispers.

Sansa smiles. “Of course.”

“I will see you in the morning then.”

“Yes, in the morning.”

He almost starts to walk away when he suddenly retreats and pushes a new plate in front of her.

“Eat.”

It is quick and she barely feels it when his lips touch her forehead. So instead, Sansa watches his figure walk away and towards a group of men several tables from her.

But it is when she looks back to the plate in front of her that she suddenly feels warm and almost to the point of tears; her chest slightly constricting, barely catching her breath because of disbelief, of awe.

Because how could someone still remember after everything that has happened–that is happening?

Sansa glances towards Jon once again and it doesn’t surprise her that he is looking back. He gives her a small nod and a smile so minuscule it is as if he does not want anyone else to notice; he does not want anyone else to see.

_Is it all for her?_

Sansa composes herself and gazes back on the plate he offered. She realizes, she will never stop wanting to see her family back together.

But for tonight, this plate of lemon cake will do.

* * *

 


	3. Fire

 

The first letter arrived when the harsh winter winds blew against the walls of Winterfell.

Jon remembers how Podrick hurriedly scuttled away—cheeks red, cloaked in heavy fur—the instant he took the roll of parchment from his hand.

“The cook is also making soup in the kitchen, your grace.” was all of the man’s explanation before leaving him once again in solitude.

Jon read the letter in haste, wanting to get a bowl of said soup himself and thinking, perhaps, Sansa and her Lady Brienne would be down there too.

But like a mockery from the Old Gods themselves, Jon was not able to get a hold of the soup.

Not when he locked himself up in his chambers in utter disbelief; in such a state of certain panic as if simmering in a quiet outburst, feeling betrayed and hopelessly foolish because how could he not have anticipated it? The contents of the letter suddenly becoming a heavy burden even for the Northern King himself.

How could he had been so idiotic? How could he be so naive when he himself had noticed?

When he himself have succumbed to evil, unbrotherly thoughts about _her_ —selfishly wanting _her_ for himself, selfishly pleading to the gods to let him stop wanting but praying all the same to let him revel and bare witness in the movements of her every day: the flash of her red hair, the faint smile from her lips, the reflexes of her hand? 

He was getting mad, Jon knew for a fact. But the sudden panic made his head spin faster and wilder because, of course, he was not the only one that noticed _._  

He was not the only one that noticed Sansa Stark. Apparently, there were one too many young lords in the North more than willing to court and win her hand. 

 _And perhaps, that was the most devastating part._  

No, it was not because of their pretty heads or titles or gifts or letters or songs or poetry. No, those were not it. 

Now, as Jon stares at another letter—one of the most recent that has arrived in Winterfell since that day— in the quiet of his solar, he knows death does not even have anything against this feeling of rottenness. 

He tries not to think of it, to think of the word. Other times he tries to think of it too much just to finally numb the stinging in his chest because he does not want to anymore worry himself over it. He cannot afford it nor can she. 

For he is Jon Snow and she is Sansa Stark. 

He is her brother. _Half-Brother_. 

What then are his chances against these young lords? 

What then would stop Sansa from the revulsion and anger and hate she will most definitely thrust upon him the moment she learns of his… feelings, affections—the ungodly temptation and sickness that sprouted in him? 

Jon crumples the letter. 

He stares in the fireplace long enough to convince himself that the flames are telling him something, as if consoling him—that his sin of wanting her, _needing her_ , is the work of nature; the lazy call of the old gods; their stubbornness, their punishment for him to endure some more because he did not become death. 

He knows, no matter the irony of it, that Sansa must never know. 

But Jon feels the familiar twitch in his fingertips. _How many times has he done this now?_  

He feels another need; his chest heaving, his mind racing and yet settled because no matter how much he pretends to ponder on it for long, he already knows what to do, the countless times he had done it. 

Because if Sansa can’t know anything about his intentions, then perhaps, she can never know about theirs either. 

Greed is a peculiar feeling, Jon realizes. He feels triumphant, crumpling the letter if not tighter, but he also feels terrified. 

 _Ashamed._  

This is not right and yet… 

He swings his hand; the letter settles. 

Then it crackles. It hisses. 

Jon watches as the fire devours the parchment. 

Soon, he knows, everything will change. He does not know if he can survive it—or if she could. 

But still, the fire continues to consume.

* * *

 


	4. Darkness

Sansa now knows that distance is never just truly measured in lengths.

Distance, she realizes can also be a form of silence—a moment of hesitation that passes between two people; _a quiet nod instead of a full answer, a choice to convene with the other lords than to hear her advice; or perhaps, a litany of excuses on why he won’t be able to join her for supper or a preference of ale over the replenished glass of wine she has poured._

Distance, apparently, is also not knowing why.

Sansa wants to strangle him. He has not spoken to her—properly spoken to her—for some days now and it is irritating her beyond comprehension. So, in some sort of a retaliation, without her even realizing it, she has become brooding like him. She snapped at her maid for simple, petty reasons, she has dismissed Brienne uncharacteristically so, and she threw Jon’s torn tunic in the fire instead of mending it, watching with odd satisfaction at how the embroidered grey direwolf was engulfed by the flames.

She sighs.

Sansa doesn’t want to think about Jon any longer lest she wants to ruin another evening. But in truth, she admits to herself, maybe this is the side of him she hasn’t fully known. And it is partly her own fault too, what with the times she avoided him when they were younger.

The hallway is silent where she now walks and the quietness only brings about memories of Winterfell when it once was the source of life and laughter. She does not like this quietness. Maybe, Sansa now thinks—hopelessly searching for some reason, some explanation for Jon’s behavior—he simply does not like the quiet too.

He has always been surrounded by the North. When they were younger, it was Robb or Arya or Theon. In the Wall, she knows he had Sam and the rest of his brothers. But now, he only has her.

And maybe—just maybe, having her is not enough.

Maybe if she were Arya instead or Robb beside him, he would have been much understanding, more accommodating. Sansa almost stops in her tracks the moment she feels the anguish take over.

She wants to laugh at herself for the childishness of her pain. It should not matter what she feels. They have Winterfell. But the comforts of walking inside its walls does not make her any less… _lonely_.

She could be ivory, she could be steel, but maybe, all she really wants is to be like snow. Soft, unworrying, pure, and happy. And Jon’s untoward rejection is not doing her any good.

It is funny at how much she longs for his validation now, peculiar even. Is this how it was for him too, looking at Catelyn Stark and sees nothing but contempt?

Sansa gasps as she trips in her stride when a shadow falls upon her. She stands still realizing who it is, struck by the suddenness because no matter how much she wants to finally see him, perhaps it’s not exactly in that moment where she is unprepared.

“Sansa?”

“ _Jon."_

“Did I scare you?”

“You didn’t scare me,” she says almost coldly. “I tripped.”

“Are you hurt?” Jon frowns, taking a step closer but she is quicker and takes a step back.

His frown deepens and Sansa hopes, for all the confusion and hurt she is enduring because of him, it also pains him to see her move away.

“Where have you been, Jon?” she asks almost sounding exasperated—no, she _is_ exasperated.

“I came from the stables— “

“You know that’s not what I meant. _Where have you been?_ ”

He sighs, looking everywhere but her. “Just in my chambers, my solar… there were letters I needed to…”

Sansa huffs, “You are ignoring me.”

He does not answer.

“ _Why?_ ”

“I am not ignoring you, Sansa.”

“Yes, you are!” she almost yells, her voice echoing in the hallway. “For days now you barely look at me and I am at my wits’ end!”

_“I am preparing for a war, Sansa!_ What’d you have me do, be in your solar day and night to watch you sew?”

She takes a breath.

Jon looks down, perhaps realizing what he just said and shakes his head. He sighs before addressing her again. “Sansa, that’s not…”

“I’m sorry if I am so useless around here.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” He finally looks up and does not hesitate to step closer, grabbing her by the arm. “Not to me. Not to anyone else.”

“But I can only sew, can’t I? I cannot wield a sword nor am I the best rider in the north,” she says bitterly.

“Sansa,” Jon whispers. He looks pained, she thinks. _Good_. “Sansa, you should know that you are… _so much more_ than that.”

He leans in closer and she gets the chance to look straight into his grey eyes—eyes that she hasn’t seen for days and nights that she allows herself to take it all in.

She missed him, she realizes—in his entirety including these moments of stupidity and idiocy—because she may not mean so much to him but gods, he means all the world to her now.

“Jon…” Sansa raises a hand to cup his cheeks but before she can even reach for his face, he is quick to retreat. He looks away from her and there it is again, that awful, dreadful feeling stabbing her repeatedly.

“I am tired. I’d like to retire to my chambers.” he says so, walking backwards and then further away.

Sansa keeps silent and watches as he disappears from the hallway.

Darkness is her only friend today.

* * *

 


	5. Mockingbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind words and support! I'll try to update as much as I could. Enjoy reading! :)

The remaining fire from the torches and the candles in the Great Hall cackles, leaving behind dancing figures and dark shadows on the wall—shapes incomprehensible to Jon Snow’s tired mind, but still, he doesn’t stand from his chair in the dais. He stares at the shadows as if in a trance, praying that if he looks and studies the figures enough, they will swallow him and then he’d finally be far away from all these mess.

He doesn’t want to be king, he knows that for sure.

But he is king now. And him becoming the new King in the North only called upon wars and battles left and right; Cersei Lannister threatening from the south, the Night’s King marching down from the north, and now apparently, as Lady Lyanna Mormont has confirmed, the Dragon Queen sailing from the east.

Truly, these songs of war and game of thrones are never going to end. Not in his lifetime, anyway.

Jon nurses his (third) cup of wine in solitude, letting himself forget—at least for a moment—about the demands of the lords and of the letters he’s either tucked away or burned without even truly grasping their contents.

“Won’t you retire soon, _your grace?_ It is getting late.”

Jon looks up. Entering the Great Hall—his cloak sweeping the stone floors like ripples, a small smirk on his face, his hands clasped behind his back—Petyr Baelish enters with such ease and truly, all Jon wants to do at that moment is ask him of the same thing.

_Won’t you ever leave Winterfell, Littlefinger?_

Jon sips before replying and then twirls his cup. “Maybe in a little while, Lord Baelish.”

“I’ve heard that the council has decided to start negotiations to the other kingdoms, start on alliances and pacts.”

“You’ve heard right.”

“I assure you, _your grace_ , that the Vale will be under your command for as long as you need our help.”

Words, Jon notices, spills so smoothly over the tongue of this man. The way he has said ‘ _your grace_ ’ sways and rolls almost so tenderly that Jon can’t help but feel the mockery.

“Truly? What does Lord Arryn says about that?”

“The Lord of the Vale cares deeply for his cousin, _your grace_. Robin Arryn wishes for his knights to ensure Sansa Stark’s safety in the duration of these,” Littlefinger extends his arm in gesture. “… affairs.”

Jon settles his cup on the table, feeling somewhat irritated and can’t help the frown forming on his face.

“Lord Arryn surely knows these things are not just mere affairs, as you have put it, Lord Baelish. _Winter is here._ ”

“Then all the more you need us, my king.” Littlefinger smiles. “The Knights of the Vale has saved Winterfell from the hands of the Boltons. We have proven our worth.”

“No one questions the strength and the help of the Vale.”

“No, but this is another council meeting that I have missed.”

Jon reclines in his chair and finally stares down on the man. “The Vale stands as a kingdom on its own. Your House is not a banner of the north.”

“Then shall I make my offers to the queens then, King Jon?”

Jon clasps his armrests. A smirk dances on Littlefinger’s lips and he walks closer to the high table.

“To secure this alliance between two great houses, King Jon, a pact must be made. A pact stronger than what letters or papers could create.”

Jon grits his teeth. “Then what do you suggest?”

Littlefinger smiles. “You already know what it is, _your grace_. I know I am not the first one to ask.”

Sansa has once told him not to trust Littlefinger and Jon knows for her to be right. But ruining an alliance with the Vale could dampen any chances of survival or of even simply protecting the walls of Winterfell from a small attack.

They are still too vulnerable.

“I wonder,” Littlefinger continues, “What has happened to the other proposals, King Jon? You have been silent on the matter.”

Jon tries to keep the shock from his face because surely, not everyone must know about the letters that has arrived in the keep. Even during council meetings, the lords were careful not to raise concerns over Sansa’s possible betrothal lest they want the other lords to know of their intent.

But the quick nods earlier from Lord Manderly and Lord Glover during the council meeting were not a miss. They are waiting for his answer.

“My sister is not some meat to be sold, Lord Baelish.” Jon almost spats. “I refuse to commit the same mistake _you_ did.”

To Jon’s amusement, Littlefinger looks raged with his words.

“I have done all that I could to ensure Sansa Stark returns to Winterfell and claim what is hers and _hers alone_.” says Littlefinger, now climbing up the dais and settling in front of Jon on the other side of the table. “Marrying her to Ramsey Bolton was a sacrifice I needed to make to ensure her success.”

“ _Success?_ ” Jon replies, incredulous enough that he stands from his chair. “You’ve put her in the hands of a man who treated her with such vile and you stand here, claiming _it was your sacrifice?”_

Littlefinger sneers. “Be careful with your words, Jon Snow. I could get my men out of Winterfell in just one word and then what would happen to your cause? How could you protect your home? How could you protect _her_? You can’t do it on your own, Snow.”

“I don’t think I will be doing it on my own, Lord Baelish.” Jon actually laughs, thinking of Brienne and Podrick. “And I do not think Sansa is vulnerable enough not to survive all of this.”

With a surprising warm thought in his head, Jon sits back on his chair and grabs his wine cup. Smiling so ever slightly, “You do not know what she can do.”

“ _And you do?_ ”

Jon actually laughs. “I think no one does.” He sips the last of his wine and challenges an amusing look in Littlefinger’s direction.

“It should be a terrifying thought, should it not, Lord Baelish?” Jon asks. “That a woman—a true Stark—could possibly turn the outcome of all these… _affairs_ upside down. Not knowing is such a frightening thing. But I lived in not knowing. The Walls in the North revealed nothing of the Others until it was all too late. Would you have survived not knowing, Lord Baelish?”

 Jon turns to look at the man who is stoic in his posture, blank expression on his face except for the pulsing vein on his forehead and the fury in his eyes.

“I may fail Sansa in all this endeavor.” Jon continues. “But what makes me sleep at night is knowing that if I fail, I know that she would not fail me.”

“And if she betrays you?” Littlefinger challenges back.

Jon frowns, a silent blow punched his gut at the thought. He knows he would not survive such an idea but if it is the only way to end the song—the song that tells of how she lived even if he didn’t, then so be it.

“Perhaps,” Jon answers. “I truly deserved it.”

Littlefinger steps away, climbing down the dais and into the large aisle of the hall. He shakes his head. “You are a fool, Jon Snow. Lord Eddard Stark was one too. And look where it got him.”

Jon takes his time before answering, savoring the seconds that pass by where Littlefinger walks away with such distress; feathers all upturned and has left with a mark—a brand, a memory, an anecdote—that only a bastard could make.

Jon smiles. “A place with the gods.”

* * *

 


	6. Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! :)

Sansa finds him in his solar, bent over writing on some ledgers and pieces of parchment. She doesn’t knock but for sure the clattering of the stationed guards’ armor as they made way for her would alert him that someone is approaching.

Still, Sansa closes the door loud enough to truly get his attention.

And yet, Jon doesn’t turn. It makes her even more annoyed.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” she says as she walks towards his desk. “I told you I will take care of Littlefinger.”

Jon doesn’t look up.

Sansa strides the distance between them and snatches away his quill, prompting Jon to finally look up.

“Jon, listen to me!” Sansa continues. “You should not have spoken to him that way. Now he knows how to get to you—now he will just continue to mock and anger you until you snap and do something stupid.”

He moves towards the open window, rubbing his forehead. “Sansa…”

But she only follows him and doesn’t let him speak. “He is our key to the Vale and we can’t survive without the Vale.”

“ _Really, Sansa?_ ” Jon asks disbelievingly. “Don’t you think I know that? I know how important they are! But that man has the nerve to threaten—“

“He was testing you, Jon, _and you fell for it!_ ”

He turns away from her again and looks over to the view, his irritation visible in the way his shoulder tenses and his knuckles white from grasping the window ledge too tightly.

Sansa only watches him at first, breathing heavily and irritatingly because he is not listening. She moves and stands beside him and feeling almost to a point of slapping him in the arm so he can feel her anger.

But from where she stands, where he is now just inches away and she could blatantly see the small scar on his cheek—and perhaps because this is the closest they have been since their encounter in the hallway days ago—Sansa stops herself from her slight rage as a certain form of resignation and exhaustion overwhelms her.

She does not want to do this anymore.  

She cannot take another moment, another day where he won’t look or speak to her and she can no longer tolerate the way he makes her blood boil in anger.

She needs Jon and she needs him more than she is willing to admit. She has become so desperate for the old gods to turn her into someone like Arya or those Wildlings he spends so much time with just so she could finally be a sight good enough for him.

She wants to be good enough for him.

“ _Jon_ ,” she almost sounds pleading.

But he is so still, looking over the scenario below them, the cold air visible as he breathes.

There is not much to see, Sansa notices. A busy courtyard in Winterfell is an everyday occurrence; the men practicing their bow and arrow, the women carrying produce from the granaries and stocks, the stable boys and smiths tending to the horses, some children running around with their own wooden swords.

Snow is falling slightly but from a far, Sansa could see the dark clouds hovering in the mountains and she knows, it would be a cold night once again.

“So beautiful,” she hears Jon whisper, one of the only few encouraging things he has uttered since they reunited. Something in his tone even makes her believe it is true.

Sansa wants to turn to look at him then, curious to see, perhaps, the nostalgic beauty of their much joyful childhood in Winterfell on his face—the kind that she saw him wear whenever he and Robb battle their imaginary dragons or when he once scraped his knee and pretended to be brave despite the blood, or maybe when he, like she, tirelessly read through the thick books in the library that tell stories of knights and princesses.

But as Sansa turns, expecting to see Jon with a faraway look in his eyes, she’s surprised to see that he is looking back at her.

She frowns but he only offers a small smile in return and a mumble so incoherent as if he did not speak at all. She wants to hear of it again and ask but Sansa is rendered silent because Jon does not tear his gaze away. He is studying her; eyes roaming on her face as if she is the most peculiar thing, as if she is indeed the beauty he just spoke of…

It is also a stare that provides them a moment of quiet, making her thoughts and her anger hover above her head—ungraspable and for a while there, unimportant.

“Jon,” Sansa repeats as she feels the blush rising on her cheeks. In her thoughts, she bids him to stop staring, she bids him not to come closer because that is what he is now doing so; his hand almost reaching, his scent of leather surrounding her, his breath further warming her cheeks; because what he is doing is truly _curious_ now. Not when she has also heard of the servants’ whispers about Northern lords and their sons and of a possible alliance through her but the King in the North has not returned any of their requests.

 _Curious_.

Sansa bids him to stop as it arises something inside of her—anguish, desperation, _hope_ —which she is fully and consciously repressing.

It is not right but at the same time… Sansa winces at the thought that is plaguing her for days and nights: in this world of monsters, _whatever else remains right?_

In her confusion, she turns away.

Jon clears his throat.                                                                          

“The courtyard.” he says, she feels him look away too.  “There’s nothing like Winterfell’s courtyard, isn’t it? It’s not as messy as the one in Castle Black and I presume, it’s not as fancy as the ones in the south. It is different. It’s one of a kind. And it is something I would die fighting for.”

“Of course,” Sansa can only mutter.

She sees Jon turn to her again. “I may have spoken rashly with Lord Baelish, Sansa. And it might have risked and destroyed our alliance with the Vale. But this is also my game to play now.”

He holds her by her shoulder. “I do not want for you to bear it alone. When I said that I will protect you, you must know I meant it.”

“ _Jon_ ,”

He sighs, letting go and leaning on the window ledge once more. “He asked for your hand. That’s why I have dealt with him with much more… _intensity_ than I have anticipated.”

Sansa almost blanches at the thought. She knows it is Littlefinger’s intention but she hasn’t realized at how soon he would put it into action.

“And I’m afraid he is not the first to ask,” Jon continues almost sadly. “Many of the lords have sons or nephews to offer. Some can be good for alliance, some are just for plain spectacle...”

Jon pauses and sighs once more, the burden seemingly so heavy to bear. “But I cannot make myself agree, Sansa. Not without your consent, not without you telling me it is alright. Because Sansa, I could never…”

Jon doesn’t finish and instead looks straight at her and then away, contemplating and disordered. She can sense his hesitation, she could see how he fists his hands. Perhaps he is now mulling in his brain on what to say next, on words that could probably make her angry or even more terribly confused.

“I cannot give you away, Sansa.” he finally continues, shoulders slumping. There is a resigned and an almost fearful look on his face. “I can have many strengths for battle but I cannot do it. I cannot fathom the idea to give my blessing on such union… of you leaving my side and seeing you with another.”

Jon huffs, almost sheepish; he’s shaking his head, running his hand in hair, trying to keep his gaze steady and yet utterly failing. He looks like he is about to collapse from the heaviness of it all.

“Sansa, it is sick. These thoughts… _my thoughts_.” he struggles but pushes. “And perhaps I am mad, truly a bastard with sick thoughts and you should hate me and this selfishness of wanting you here, _just here with me_ … unless you tell me yourself that you want to make an alliance, to marry, to a husband of your choosing then I will agree. I don’t want you to feel that you cannot decide on this because you could. You are the only one who has the right to. Whatever it is that you want. Anything.”

And Sansa feels that she could cry. Because no matter the denial she keeps on feeding her mind, there it is.

 _There he is_.

Just the thought of being away from Jon too, of being married off to another man and of not anymore living in Winterfell makes her heart break one too many times.

It is not right to feel this way about Jon, she knows that. And yet at present, it feels entirely quite the opposite.

If Jon can endure this game of politics with her, then she could be brave with him too.

She knows he could hate her for this, she knows that she is risking too many other chances but Sansa steps closer and places a hand on his cheek.

“Oh, Jon…” she whispers. She tilts her head and she sees him concentrate on their closing figures, on her lips just inches away, of his own head angling to accommodate… he wants this.

_He wants this as much as she does._

What sort of sorcery swirls in their foolish minds? What kind of witchcraft has allowed something like this to happen? Has the Old Gods truly forsaken them both?

He caresses her hand on his cheek and whispers back, “We shouldn’t,”

“No, we shouldn’t.” she agrees and yet neither of them takes a step back; no fingers uncurled, no gaze shifts, no minds, no thoughts, no body parts want to get away.

 _They should not do this_ , Sansa thinks.

And yet they do.

The familiar cold wind of the north softly caresses their intertwined figures—her lips soft on his, his hand now pulling her closer by the waist.

Days from now, they both might try to figure this out further: on what triggered such need for each other, on what repercussions they might face, on what the other lords and those loyal to them might say.

They will fight, they will argue, they will repent, and they might even regret it.

But as their lips refuse to part—as selfishly as the monsters have taken them both for granted, as evident as the scars on their chests, and as real as their enemies’ threats—Sansa wonders how much further this moment could shatter their already broken selves.

* * *

 


	7. Stolen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! :) Thanks again for all the lovely response!

There is much pretending that nothing has changed.

Jon cannot deny this new dynamic between them—not when they broke their fast earlier this morning and he gazed at her one, two second too long he was so foolishly unaware of the porridge dripping from his spoon that hung in midair—his mouth slightly open, ready to receive the mouthful but he cannot just look away.

Surely, their pretense was evident even during the council meeting and Sansa had graced him and the other lords with her presence. And when the discussion became heated (Tormund grumbling, Lord Glover bellowing some curses), he was consoled by Sansa’s firm grasp on his hand, unseen and secured from under the table.

There was no need to act rashly, he knew, but when he walked her to her chambers after the counsel, he walked determinedly after her and locked the door behind. After, he grasped Sansa by the waist and buried his head on her neck.

He didn’t even need to give her a kiss. He just needed her.

“Jon,” he heard her sigh then. “I’ve to prepare myself for supper.”

He waited for a moment before replying, indulging himself of this opportunity to hold her so close after not being able to for such a while.

“We can sup here.” He suggested.

She laughed and gently pushed herself away from his embrace. She touched his cheek. “We can’t. They will wonder.”

And Jon hated it—because even if they didn’t wonder on the peculiarity of that setting, they would rather think of it as something that Jon didn’t want it to be: a brother and a sister sharing some wine.

Jon knows, after that night where his lips savored hers, they will never be dining together only because they are kin. There is no other way Jon would be able to view suppers with Sansa other than _a man and a woman_ dining together—separate from the worries and the pressures of the world; exchanging stories of what their day had been like, ignoring the ringing in their ears because of too much wine, and indulging themselves not only with the rare northern sweets but of that certain satisfaction to be in each other’s company.

Always with a certain warmth that creeps on to his chest and despite him being so unaccustomed to such thoughts and behaviors, Jon always quietly dreams of it: a moment where Sansa’s laughter becomes something he can devour even long after the plates have gone.

_If such a moment could even exist_ , he now wonders as he remains in solitude once more in his own chambers. Parchments long forgotten on his desk together with the bread and cheese his squire had delivered earlier. Sansa had chosen to have her supper with the rest of the household, as she had reminded him, but he chose to mull over their situation instead in the quiet of his room. Jon thinks with a snort, this is what he does best, apparently. Brooding at any given chance.

Mayhap, he should’ve had supper with the rest of them. Maybe he could have even delighted himself in seeing Sansa as she (almost, but never quite) cleans up her plate, thanking her steward and cook for a wonderful meal.

During supper, everything is different. It’s as if the entire North is entranced with the magic of a certain togetherness in the air that for a while there, it can become blissful.

For a while there, they have forgotten.

Jon wants to forget too—to submerge himself into oblivion with her because maybe it is only in oblivion that they could be together.

No responsibilities, no qualms, no shame.

Perhaps, it does not require him to steal moments with Sansa either. In there, they could be free. Where nothing and no one expects so much from the King and the Lady and, with a slight relief as he imagines, it is a place where she cannot be harmed. _Not again_.

Jon winces as he realizes that Littlefinger might be dining with her now. He tries not to think too much of it despite the strong urge to go down to the Great Hall and make sure the mockingbird is not an inch too close to Sansa. He knows the travel will not be worth it.

Petyr Baelish is a smart man. He won’t be easily intimidated by a man’s mere and primal need to protect his lady. Petyr’s games are not something Jon could end with a simple punch—not when Littlefinger has been giving him all-too-knowing glances for the past few days that Jon knows tonight, or any other night soon after, is not the greatest moment to break his composure.

_Sansa can handle him_ , Jon thinks. _And if she doesn’t on her own, then we both could_.

Jon listens to the slight rustling and howling in the air. He can even hear faint noises from the Free Folk’s camp just within the borders of Winterfell. Maybe that is even Tormund’s laughter…

A knock interrupts him.

“Jon?”

He knows that voice. Quickly, Jon stands, unable to keep himself from letting her in. He doesn’t even speak—not when the first thing he always wants to do is to look at her.

Truly, he will and never be able to look away.

“Lemon cakes,” Sansa says with a smile, offering him a small plate. “I’ve saved some for you.”

Jon takes the plate, opening the door wider for her to get in.

Then the doors locks once more. And once more, he is beside her, craving to touch whichever part of her she will allow.

“Eat,” she says, echoing him from some previous nights ago. “And Brienne is outside.”

It is a warning. Jon nods his disappointment.

She cannot stay long. Not when there is someone who can observe, who can notice, who can ask the right questions with neither of them able to provide the right answers.

Jon realizes, this is another stolen moment.

And he is going to take it.

He places the plate on his cluttered desk and makes his way towards her. He tucks a stray hair behind her ears and revels in the simple pleasure that he is allowed to hold her like this.

Sansa does not wince but there is the hesitation, there is the guilt. Still, she lets him.

“You are missed at supper.” she speaks. “Lord Manderly took over the entire night and shared his own life stories, really… I could not quite believe him to be that funny.”

“Did anybody give you a hard time?”

Sansa raises an eyebrow at this, “If you’re talking about—“

“Of course.”

She sighs. “No, but he asks of you too.”

“Taunting?”

“ _Of course_.”

“I should have been there.”

“You would have punched your way, Jon.” Sansa snorts, so charmingly unlady-like that Jon chuckles too. “Then I would not be able to eat my dessert in peace."

Jon grins and with courage, kisses her quickly—like an endearment, like a point to be made. Sansa blushes.

“So impulsive…” she murmurs and teased, pushing him slightly away. She takes something from her pockets and hands it to him.

“This also arrived.” Sansa adds, revealing a small parchment with a sigil he’s still trying to figure out. “Don’t worry, none of the other lords nor Littlefinger were there to see it.”

Jon takes the parchment, studying the stamped wax. Lizard-lion. “Is this…?”

She nods in confirmation.

Jon tears the letter open.

“What does it say?” Sansa inquires, leaning over and trying to take a glimpse of the letter herself.

It is short and direct.

Jon frowns, “Howland Reed is on his way to Winterfell.”

“That is news,” says Sansa. “Lord Reed has never left the—“

“My lady?” he hears Brienne through the door.

Sansa takes a breath and Jon sighs another disappointment.

“She’s with good heart,” Sansa explains. Then after a little while, “I have to go.”

Jon disregards the letter and moves to stand if not even closer. He cups her cheek. Gently, he closes the gap between them and gives Sansa another kiss.

It is not playful like the one prior nor does it carry with it some hint of fear like their first.

No, it is but a _kiss_. A kiss rightfully deserved after the day have separated them so. Tomorrow, he knows, it would be the same. So Jon wants to leave Sansa with a kiss that holds one too many secrets—secrets that can only pass through their lips.

Sansa finally lets go with a shy smile. She turns from him and crosses the room and into his door. But before she allows herself out, she turns back. Cheeks red, eyes longing, lips still upturned.

“Good night, Jon.” she whispers.

He knows, with a slight ache and want in his chest as she closes the door, that is the face of his oblivion.

* * *

 


	8. Parting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer than I initially planned! Also, I took some liberties on the "supposed" leaks for Season 7. Enjoy! :)

The crack is like a curse from the Old Gods.

It whips and resounds; the vibrations travel in the air and unto the cold winds of winter that crashes on the walls of Winterfell.

Sansa is awakened by it—then by the hurrying footsteps outside her chambers; the sounds of clunking metals and garbled voices, and then finally, a frantic knock on her door.

“Sansa!” shouts the voice from the other side. But it is unable to wait for her response—or for her to even fully grasp the chaos that is happening around.

Jon pushes the door open and strides the room as Sansa is getting up and pulling her robe from a nearby chair.

“What was that, Jon?” she croaks, throat dry.

He’s dressed properly, sword even on his belt, but everything on him looks as if he’d strewn it all on himself in a hurry. He probably did.

Jon holds her by the arm and pulls her close. Sansa can see a slight panic on his face as he answers. “I’m not sure yet. But we must hurry.”

Sansa wants to ask where but Jon is already dragging her out of her chambers, snatching a cloak for her and arranging it on her shoulder as they walk, ensuring she is fully clothed. Around, people are hurrying—men and women clutching to their little ones, castle guards blocking each and every entrance or lighting more torches as darkness envelopes them further with each snap and lock of a wooden window. They all part when she and Jon walks by but Sansa cannot ignore all their frightened looks upon her.

_What are we going to do?_ They all seem to ask. _What is going on?_

Sansa is asking of the same things.

But Jon is relentless, holding her tightly and walking past his people and into the Great Hall. Soon, Sansa sees Brienne and Podrick following their lead and Ser Davos right in front of the large oak doors of the hall, opening it as they walk the threshold.

The other lords are already in there together with some of the Free Folk, conversing and arguing loudly and Sansa even hears of soldiers and men being ordered to go to Castle Black.

_No,_ Sansa thinks. It should not surprise her, to hear such orders because isn’t this what they have been preparing for? Isn’t this moment the one they should have anticipated? And yet, the terror and surprise does not escape her.

The voices only become louder the moment they see her and Jon walk in. Sansa could not help but realize though, heightening the current panic in her chest and ignoring the faint voice in her head because in the scheme of things perhaps it should not matter— _but no it unfortunately does—_ Jon is still holding her hand.

Cautiously, she searches for that one person whose eyes also search for her more than she deems necessary and innocent; those eyes that always seem to pierce and strip. She knows he is just here somewhere, like he always is—lurking like a shadow, pretending that he is high and mighty like all the rest of the men in the Great Hall, unable to even smell his own traitorous stench.

Sansa feels too exposed, now unsure if it is because of Jon or the disorder around her, or possibly, the simple fact of not knowing where _that man_ is hiding.

But then there, as Jon leads her atop the dais, in the corner of her eye, she sees him leaning again on the gray walls of the hall. Arms crossed and with a small mischievous smile on his face as if he is enjoying the scenario too much.

_Of course_.

Littlefinger is definitely looking back at her—and at those two hands currently so intertwined.

Calming the terror that is suddenly creeping up on her, Sansa tries to pull back. Beside her, Jon stiffens and questioningly turns to look, the first time he does so since they left her chamber, and only grips her hand if not even tighter.

Sansa gives him a knowing frown and inconspicuously pulls her hand again. Reluctantly, he lets go. It does not take him too long to scan the place, Sansa notices. And she feels him take a deep breath upon seeing Littlefinger in the room.  Jon gives her another strained look before facing the other lords.

“The Wall has probably been breached.” he starts in that deep voice of his. “A raven has been sent to the Night’s Watch—“

“It’s all gone, isn’t it? The Wall crumbled down?” the young Lord Cerwyn asks.

“Unlikely,” Jon slowly responds, as if in thoughts. Sansa can only imagine what he is probably thinking. The Wall crumbling down means there can be no Castle Black. The Wall crumbling down is the Night’s Watch—his brothers—deaths.  “But it is in no doubt, damaged.”

“So truly it is the Wall that we heard?” Lord Manderly follows suit, a tone of disbelief in his voice. “That is the sound of it cracking? I cannot fathom any other structure that could emit such horrific echoes.”

“Tha’ is not even the wors’ part,” Tormund almost sniggers. “Tha’ crack only means the Others are on their way and I’m sure they are coming in quick. The moment they destroy the entire thing is the moment everything ends for us.”

The chaos commences again. Lords rising and shouting orders, Free Folks huffing and grumbling, calling out to their own men and women to gather and prepare.

Sansa tries to grapple all of what they are saying. Jon has been telling her about these tales of the White Walkers as if retelling from an old book. At first it all seemed so far-fetched, like it is something he procured from his imagination but Sansa reminds herself that those tales are Jon’s.

Stories she once only read in the library are now stories that Jon has experienced himself. She cannot help the shudder she feels because Jon— _her Jon—_ has endured it all in truth. How can he have survived it? How can he still even sleep at night?

Maybe he truly is a god like what the whispers say. A man who came back from the dead, a man that killed a White Walker, a man who saved thousands of lives at Hardhome, a man now King in The North—liable to more lives than Cersei Lannister could even comprehend.

Jon is deemed so capable that they thrust the entire North upon his shoulder.  

But couldn’t they see the tiredness in his eyes? Or those moments he sparred too long in the yard to release all of his frustrations after a long council meeting?

He said it to her before. He was tired of fighting. And yet here he is again, his honor binding him to do what has been asked of him. Sansa feels her heart clench at the scenario before her.

Perhaps it is because of his whispers to her at night, when he challenges propriety and visits her chamber only to steal another kiss or another embrace. Sometimes, it is an excuse of another story he forgot to share or a plate of food he cannot finish by himself. The normalcy of those nights now suddenly becomes the far-fetched dream she thinks for herself—for him.

He mentioned something about running away once—like a slip, a jape. But he quickly changes the topic before Sansa even gets a chance to ask further.

The lords continue with their demands and she sees Jon nurse his forehead as he listens. She doesn’t know how much longer of this she could take.

Sansa wants to weep. She fists her hands to try and regain control of herself but the panic is still ensuing in the Great Hall. She wants to pull Jon away from these people because couldn’t they see he has had enough?

_She’s had enough_. Why couldn’t all of this just end?

She sees Littlefinger smirking on the sides and this angers her even more. How dare he? She watches as he walks to the center aisle, hands behind his back.

“If I may, _your grace_.” he interrupts.

Jon stiffens again but nods.

“The Dragon Queen,” Littlefinger announces. “… is fast approaching Dragonstone, the last I’ve heard. And if rumours are true, then she has brought with her three dragons and hordes of soldiers to fight Cersei Lannister for the throne.”

Littlefinger takes a step on the dais, now addressing the entire Northern court. “But given _our_ situation, I think she would reconsider and let Cersei Lannister wait a little while longer.”

“Are you suggesting a treaty with a _Targaryen_ , Lord Baelish?” Lord Manderly bellows. “We do not trust a Targaryen!”

There is a murmur of agreement. Sansa does not take her eyes off Littlefinger.

“Yes, my lord.” he answers too politely. “That is what I am suggesting. Three dragons and throngs of Dothraki soldiers could aid the North.”

Then he directly addresses Jon. “You know that to be true.”

Jon remains stoic, looking as if he is calculating the situation.

“Your grace,” Littlefinger starts again but Sansa can’t help herself and cuts him off.

“Treating with the Dragon Queen in Dragonstone is too far south, Lord Baelish,” she challenges. “That is too far south for the King to travel amidst all this panic in the North.”

Sansa could tell Littlefinger is enjoying this—her challenging him back. It is the game he has been wanting to play for so long, to see and attest how good she has become.

“You also speak true, my lady.” he smiles. “That is why I also suggest that _I_ do the treaty with the Dragon Queen on behalf of _our_ cause.”

She is about to retaliate on the idiocy of it but Jon gets to her and speaks first.

“That is a suggestion I would keep in mind, Lord Baelish.” he says. “But that is not something we would decide on tonight.”

Littlefinger raises his eyebrow at Jon’s blunt words but he bows his head and steps down from the dais, retreating to his space at the far side.

Jon addresses the Northern lords again. “Tonight, we keep to the safety of Winterfell. Prepare not more than ten of your men to travel North and gather information from the Night’s Watch and give assistance, if needed. Your best soldiers should remain here until we know for certain what we are facing.”

He takes a breath. “Secure your women and children, make sure they are warm and comfortable. I promise you, dawn will still be upon us tomorrow.”

He dismisses them and finally sits on a chair. Sansa remains at his side, watching them all leave and disregarding Littlefinger’s stealing glances. The door of the Great Hall closes shortly, leaving her with Jon and with their most trusted companions.

“Do you think Lord Baelish makes a point, your grace?” Ser Davos asks, approaching them slowly.

Jon sighs. “We cannot fight the Others on our own.”

Sansa frowns at this. “Jon, you cannot seriously consider Littlefinger to hold the treaty for you. _He will betray you_.”

She does not even try to keep mum on her accusations for later in the privacy of his solar and she sees Tormund smile at her surprising audacity.

“Don’ like tha’ man either.” the wildling murmurs.

Jon ignores this. “We need all the help we can get, Sansa. And if she has dragons… _dragons_ , Sansa.”

She is not sure what that is supposed to mean but the quite bewildered expression on Jon’s face only tells her that he is considering it all too much. She doesn’t like it.

“We are not even sure if that is the Wall breaking, Jon.” she adds stiffly.

It’s his turn to frown at her. “We don’t have to be sure to be prepared, Sansa. I’ve told you all of what I’ve seen and that sound is—“

“I know what you told me and I believe you!” she almost yells. “But this is not just all about the Others, Jon. Half of Westeros do not even believe such things exist! They will take advantage of this and play another game of politics—“

“It’s not about politics—“

“It is and _it will always be_ if you let Littlefinger parlay. We will owe all the other kingdoms—“

“They will _owe us_ something, Sansa, for keeping them safe—“

“Not all of them will be as honorable—“

“ _I know_ what honor could and could not do, Sansa—“

“ _Jon, please don’t be_ —“

“ _Sansa, I cannot_ —“

She hears Ser Davos clears his throat.

Sansa huffs and she sees Jon reclines back on his chair. The room is silent for a moment but Sansa could still feel the irritation in her veins. She looks around instead.

Brienne is staring at her determinedly, loyal to a fault. Ser Davos is looking down on the stone floors and Podrick is slightly fidgeting by the door. Only Tormund seems to be amused by all of it.

Resigned, Sansa walks to a nearby chair and sits. Anger will not help their situation. It never does. But it has been quite some time since she and Jon shared a much-heated conversation and while she does not entirely miss it, it what makes her trust and admire him even more.

Because despite everything, he heeds her opinion. He looks forward to her thoughts. And in her lifetime, that is more than what all the others has given her.

With nothing but the crackling hearth, after a while, Jon finally breaks the silence. “Lady Brienne, take Podrick with you and secure Lady Stark’s chamber. I will see to her return.”

Jon then turns to the Onion Knight. “Ser Davos, make sure the men going North are well prepared. And Tormund,”

The wildling grunts.

“Force your people to camp inside Winterfell. It will be hard to get along with the rest, but you know it is harder not be protected by walls… given our circumstance.”

With another grunt, Tormund follows suit with the others as they walk out of the Great Hall.

Another silence supervenes.

She hears the scrape of his chair as he turns toward her but Sansa keeps her gaze away, willing Jon in her head to try and not speak. Maybe it is silence that they both need given their tempers.

But Jon says quietly, “Sansa, you know _I_ have to go.”

And then there it is. The truth in the words of Littlefinger ringing back in her ears because isn’t that what the scum is so good at? At making sense all the time even she considered for a moment there, as he was proposing earlier, that it was the only way?

Treating with the Dragon Queen _is_ the only way.

She’s now even more terrified to look at Jon, to see his face deeply engulfing this new-found hope—his goodness overpowering any sense, any need for rest; of escaping it all as she first and foolishly had hoped he would reiterate and whisper in her ears again tonight.

_Her poor Jon_.

“Sansa,” she doesn’t realize but Jon has walked towards her, now kneeling and reaching to touch her face. “Sansa, look at me.”

She does because like him, she can never resist a moment to etch him in her brain.

“Jon…”

“It is our one chance to make sure we would survive this.” he holds her by her neck while the other hand caresses her face. “It is my only chance to keep you safe.”

“I don’t want you to go.” she pleads. “Make Ser Davos go or any of the lords.”

He smiles, an effort to jape, “And insult the queen? To send just the second-in-command of the Northern King to plead for her help?”

“She’s not my queen.”

“ _Nor I_ ,” Jon agrees. “But it is unwise to offend her, you know that.”

Of course, she does. But Sansa wonders if she keeps this façade, to show this part of her that remembers the songs about knights and princes; this part of her that is untarnished—no, _resurrected_ the moment Jon fought for Winterfell, the moment he promised to protect her, the moment he refused to give her away to any other man, the moment of that first kiss—would it be enough to make him stay and end the song with her?

_Just her?_

But no, it is foolish.

The thought warms and yet embarrasses Sansa. Truly, she is no longer that girl of ten and two blinded by the lies of these songs.

“I will come with you,” she speaks softly.

But his answer is gruff. “ _No._ ”

“We can do it together, Jon.   _You will need me there_.”

“Aye,” he now smiles truly. “I will never know of a day that I won’t need you, Sansa. But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, don’t you remember? And you are that Stark.”

“You know this is what he wants,” Sansa reasons with grief. “This is what Littlefinger wants, for us to be parted again so he could meddle with our affairs.”

Jon tightens his hold on her and stresses, “ _But you won’t let that happen._ ”

Sansa breathes, taking in what Jon had just said, looking back into his gray eyes that swells with pride—for her, for what she can do, she’s not even sure of which, but it’s there. “Of course, I won’t.”

“And if I fail,”

“ _Jon,_ ”

“No, listen to me,” he insists. “If I fail, the North will rely on you to protect them.”

“But I don’t have anything to offer. I don’t have an army, I don’t have the dragons.”

Jon offers a small chuckle. “Sansa, you don’t need dragons. You never needed one. _You’re a wolf_. The wolf howls into the night to shatter children’s nightmares.”

Sansa lets out another deep breath before allowing herself to say, “I’m terrified.”

Jon quickly reaches to kiss her deeply.

“So am I,” he whispers as they part. “But you’re here. That is enough reason for me to not stop fighting.”

Sansa traces the scar on his cheek, knowing full well that nothing will stop him now from leaving.

“When will you go?” she asks.

Jon smooths her cheek with his thumb. “I will leave at dawn.”

* * *

 


	9. Sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this took a while! Enjoy! :)

He knocked quietly.

There was rustling behind the door and Jon could only hope she was not sleeping before he intruded. He already felt embarrassed enough to search for her at this time of the day but there was such a need on his chest that kept on nagging at him that even praying in the Godswoods did not alleviate the feeling of it.

She swung the door open and smiled as she saw him.

“Jon?”

“It’s not morning yet.” was the only thing he could say but she offered a small laugh, opening the door further to let him in.

Sansa was still in her night shift and with only a light robe covering her. The hearth was faintly glowing and it did something to the fabric of her gown—made it look thin and almost translucent that there were some portions of an evident silhouette, shapely and almost too soft to touch.

It was the curve of her waist.

Jon didn’t want to think too much of it and focused on her lovely face instead—which was a good distraction on its own. Her cheeks were red because of the cold, her hair was loose and covered her torso, almost disheveled with strands in crisscrossing disarray. But Jon appreciated this look on her, this look of slight vulnerability and unrestrained disposition.

Because for a moment there, it almost looked as if there was nothing troubling her—or him. It was a look that assures Jon that Sansa was going to be alright.

“It _is_ almost morning,” she said upon closing her chamber door. She walked the distance between them and gently placed a hand on his cheek. “And you are about to leave.”

Jon can’t help but smile, a jape forming in his head, whispered so easily through his lips. “Will you stop me from going then?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Sansa replied. “But I can still convince you to let me come and join you.”

He didn’t even need to think about his answer. “ _No._ ”

She rolled her eyes and moved away. She walked towards the fire and added more dry wood. “Are you confident with just Ser Davos with you?”

“We’ll be bringing along a handful of men as well.”

She stood up only to look at him sternly, “That’s not what I meant. Do you think Ser Davos would be enough to represent your council—“

“He is more than enough, Sansa, you know he is a bright man—“

“I know he is a bright man, Jon. But I am sure Daenerys Targaryen does not only have _one_ member of her council with her when you parlay.”

“Must I invite Littlefinger then?”

“ _Jon…_ ” Sansa sighed and shook her head. She crossed the room and into her open window, tucking her robe tighter around her thin body.

“Sansa,” he reasoned as he followed suit. “This is not even up for discussion.”

Jon positioned himself just right behind her, gently pulling her into his arms—wary at first because he had never been so brave to attempt such a thing before; to let himself be this close to her not in an impulsive or panicked way as if she might vanish, but in a soft and careful manner.

Almost as if _doting_ ; gentle and certain and assured.

It was a hand on her waist, his face buried on her neck, her eyes unable to search him the way he can see her from this view; something that took him a place further and felt ironically even more intimate compared to the liberties she had allowed his lips—and then reveling in the notion of her easily and surprisingly leaning back as if they had been doing it all their lives. In his dreams, sometimes it felt like they did.

“You are staying here.” he murmured to her ears, also stealing a peck on her cheek. “For my sanity.”

“And what of mine, Jon?” Sansa turned her head to meet his eyes, still very much indignant. “What of my sanity? Do you expect me to just calmly wait here and _sew_ all the while you are risking your life going south?”

“Better mine than yours. And besides, you are not just going to _sew_.” Jon moved to face her fully, turning her body slightly to meet his, feeling amused at how the reference to sewing began to be a peculiar anecdote that they share. “You are not just going to make dresses and mend my tunics because _you are going to rule._ ”

But she was easy to dismiss this. “But I am not queen.”

“A ruler does not need to be a queen.”

“Says who?”

“ _Says me_ , says the people who admire you for taking back Winterfell, for outsmarting the Boltons and for convincing the other houses to fight for our cause.”

“Jon, I cannot take these praises,” she shook her head again, sighing her misplaced and very much unwarranted disappointment. “They like and need you more.”

“A long time coming that one,” Jon managed to chuckle. “I’ve been here in the north all my life and yet it feels as if it is the first time the sun has shone upon my brooding face and the rest of them have finally seen me—as a remembrance perhaps of father, of Robb… but it doesn’t matter.”

“They trust you.”

“Aye, they do and that greatly worries me.” he admitted. “Because what if I do not live up to that? If I am unworthy?”

Sansa reached to touch his cheek. “Unworthy and yet the gods have chosen to still bring you back? Who could even doubt that?”

Jon felt slightly exasperated because her words—especially the way she was looking at him, with such admiration and wonder—and maybe, just maybe, _love_ —had placed him on a pedestal overflowing with reverence that there was no room for him to fail.

It was a terrifying thought because what were the chances that he can convince the Dragon Queen to ally with him? He was nothing but a bastard in truth.

He rested his forehead on hers, sighing and closing his eyes, allowing himself this amount of resignation and weakness to overcome him and bravely share some of this burden to her.

“Do you really believe that,” Jon asked, still not letting go. “That I am worthy?”

Sansa placed another hand on his cheek. “I could not think of anyone else.”

“Yourself? Bran?”

“If he returns, he will be Lord of Winterfell.”

“ _When_ he returns.” Jon opened his eyes, moving slightly away to properly look at Sansa, placing his own hand on her cheek.

She continued with a small but fond smile. “He will return then, as you said so, and rule the keep. But you would still be king.”

He snorted. “ _Wonderful._ ”

Sansa took a deep breath and arranged his cloak and armor. “Father has placed such a great amount of trust and confidence to both you and Robb since we were little. I can only imagine what you are feeling right now as King and trying to live up to his memories, bringing back the old glory of our family name whereas there is me, this… this _little southern dove_ , who can only do so much to honor and represent his legacy.”

“Sansa…”

“Oh, Jon.” she sighed in worry, “Are we doing the right thing? Is this what we are supposed to do? Or are we making the same mistakes again as the rest of our family did? Of father being too honorable and trusting, of Robb being too young and aggressive—of my mother blinded by her own cleverness?”

Jon shook his head, determined to erase the doubts in her head despite also feeling lost in the gravity of all their responsibilities.

“I don’t know, Sansa.” he replied. “I don’t know if what we are doing is right. But I think it is even more harming for us not to do anything at all. The Starks have been on this seat for hundreds and hundreds of years and I am sure that not each one of those kings or wardens were perfect.”

He tucked a stray hair from her face as she turned away. “I know the two of us are certainly not the kind of leaders the North has hoped for, but we are all they have.”

Jon turned her face and lifted her chin up. “We are not perfect, Sansa. _But what is wrong with that?_ ”

Her eyes softened and there was once again that small, fond smile. “You wonder why the North has chosen you as King and yet here you are proving why.”

“I am just doing what I know is right.” he reasoned. “We could do with less evil in the world. I do not wish to fail the kingdom and I most especially do not want to fail you because if I did, if I failed to secure this alliance and you get harmed, then what is the point of all this? Maybe I should have just packed-up and sailed east.”

She sighed, tugging him closer, pulling his cloak in another attempt to straighten it. “When this is all over, perhaps we could sail together.”

Warming up, he can only reply, “Then, I cannot wait.”

Jon tilted her head to meet his and there was nothing he could see but Sansa’s lovely face he nearly choked in the beauty of it. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, ardently feeling her lips close around his and there was nothing else that mattered in that instant.

When they let go, she whispered almost fearfully. “You will return to me, won’t you?”

A certain hesitation crossed her features and slightly broke their reverie; fear was crawling inside his chest because while Jon knew for sure that he would return to her, what if— _what if he was too late?_

Jon felt another ache, that certain surge of protectiveness only Sansa and this state of vulnerability he was perhaps leaving her in, can stir. But he pushed himself to trust her further.

Sansa had managed and survived without him all those years ago, so what were a few moons?

“I do not wish to part from you more than you want me to go.” he assured her and then was quite bewildered on the next words he uttered for they were so foreign to his tongue; like a certain kind of sweetness he had not tasted before and yet the urgency of it flowed rapidly within his veins, overcoming whatever inhibitions he had forever carried inside his chest, thinking that perhaps, this was the opportune time to say it.

“You are the only sight I can ever see from a distance, my love.” he continued. “And I’m already relishing the moment when I return and see you waiting for me at the gates.”

Sansa beamed, blushing if not as fiercely as the color of her hair, and tried to jape and cover up her certain and obvious shyness at his surprising boldness. “With dragons screeching overhead?”

Jon managed to chuckle, feeling relieved and endeared with her reaction. “Yes, if we are lucky, with dragons flying and screeching overhead.”

“Then I, too, cannot wait for the day of your return.” she whispered.

Jon savored his last moments in her solar trying to memorize her face yet again; stealing another kiss before letting go from their embrace and then finally (and begrudgingly) crossed the room. He was unable to resist though and glanced back to see her fully: now sitting back on the chair near the fire, cloak snug around her, from her window the sunrise faintly coloring the grey clouds—capturing her in another moment much too lovely for Jon not to immerse and indulge himself in.

He kept this image of Sansa so fervently vivid in his mind as he knew, it may be the only thing that could make his journey south more bearable.

Faintly, just right before he closed her chamber door, he heard her say,

“ _Goodbye, Jon._ ”

And so until now, even five days later, Jon remembers no other instance where he was able to walk as fast as he did during that morning when they parted, knowing that if he stayed a second too long, he may no longer have the will to leave her.

But as always, when the sun could still not rise any later, where he now once again finds himself atop his horse after what he feels like just mere minutes of sleep filled only with memories of Sansa, the tug he feels and the restlessness to go back home to her does not fade one bit—or will it ever, he so believes.

Truly, it is harder to deal with his growing distance to Winterfell more than the lack of comfortable sleeping quarters in the next days, as duly reminded by Ser Davos, mere minutes after leaving the small village they stayed in—and ironically from the same inn Lord Reed has stayed in on his way North, so they’ve been told.

“I am sure your sister will have the household more than ready for Lord Reed’s arrival, your grace.” Ser Davos assures him as they ride side by side.

“Indeed.”

“Have you ever been this far south then?”

Jon chuckles. “No. And I particularly don’t see the fuss about it, if I may be so bold.”

“Then you really are a man of the North, my King, if you prefer winter than this much bearable sunlight.” Ser Davos returns his laughter. “But perhaps, in all things considered, maybe there truly is just no other place a person attaches his heart to more than his own home, no matter how harsh its surrounding may be.”

Jon gives the old man a smile. “If you keep up with your great words, Ser Davos, I think it would not take us too long to treat with the Queen and then, you can safely deliver me back home to Lady Stark.”

Ser Davos chuckles before finally muttering another quip, albeit looking slightly fearful. “And I do not wish for any other way, your grace, as your direwolf also has quite the fondness for the lady. It is a bond I know so well not to disappoint.”

And Jon, despite the slight weariness, can only grin and appreciate the old man’s response.

“You speak true,” he then agrees, unable to again keep the image of Sansa from his head. “I’d rather slay a dragon than betray a wolf.”

* * *

 


	10. Reed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't plan on taking this long to update and then write a chapter this long! Sorry for any typos for I haven't had the chance to fully go over the text since I am still out of my wits writing this entire thing. Expect some updates (if ever) for this chapter soon! Enjoy!

Sansa has never thought that praying to the Old Gods is something comforting. Lady Catelyn Stark had ensured her endearment towards the Seven and her childhood had been spent praying at the sept. Over the course of the years, the Old Gods felt like a story myth more than a deity real and forgiving enough to protect her.

Oh, but what can desperation make and do to a woman.

Ever since the news of Robb and Catelyn Stark’s demise—when her maids had whispered how Grey Wind’s head was sewn into Robb’s body and how her dear mother was thrown into the river to mock the long-tradition of the Tullys, Sansa had found no escape in King’s Landing except for the always empty and unkempt Godswood. Her then-husband, Tyrion Lannister, presumed these visits as a means to pray to her faith, for the soul of her Northern family, but she had bluntly rejected it.

“I don’t pray anymore.” she said then.

She remembers Tyrion’s face trying to hold a mask of understanding but she could not deny the shock that had crossed his features. His bride, the sweet innocent little Sansa, was gone.

Sansa went to the Godswood in King’s Landing to be alone. But once in a while, when her loneliness had overcome her, she would speak. She would cry in anger, calling for the Old Gods who had forgotten about her family; who had forgotten about her.

She didn’t believe in them for a while; when she was still in King’s Landing, when Littlefinger took her under his wing, and most certainly during her marriage to Ramsey Bolton. But even then, and bitterly admitting it, Sansa knew that the Old Gods were all she had left. Her entire family was dead. And in a world that had abandoned her, _that had betrayed her_ , if seeking myths was the only way to cope, then she poured her heart to it.

Not until Jon.

Sansa looks up and straight into the eyes of the weirwood tree like it spoke this miracle to her. She could not help feeling the slight relief for it is true. She could also no longer feel any pain in her kneeling, like she once used to, reveling in the notion that her devotion to the Old Gods this time are sincere.

_Jon_.

_Jon has changed everything._

His name alone brings comfort to Sansa.

He’s been on the journey south for almost a full moon’s turn now and she admits she misses his presence wholeheartedly so.

She feels like standing on the edge of a snowy cliff, in between two scenarios: to turn around and endure the burden of the Northern court, or to make one single step over to the vast blackness before her and succumb to the fear.

To the weariness.

_Hopelessness._

But she remembers that she promised.

Sansa promised not to let anything happen to Winterfell the same way Jon had promised to return to her. So, every day, holding on to the memory of that last sunrise they witnessed together, she goes to the godswood and does the one thing she used to despise:

She prays.

She prays for Jon and for his safe voyage and return. She prays for Arya and for Bran, wherever they are, hoping that they could hear her plea for them to finally come home, and then she prays for their fallen. She prays for Lady and Jory, Maester Luwin, Septa Mordane and even the wildling that once took care of her brothers.

Then before she ends, she reserves the last moments for those she misses the most—enduring the pain of remembering them all over again.

Father. Mother. Robb. Rickon.

_Father. Mother. Robb. Rickon_.

Over and over and over again, Sansa whispers their names like a treasured secret.

The snow, weightless and soft, drifts around her in the godswood and for once, it is peaceful. She quietly celebrates the sheer joy of being in her own head and think of them. Because, Sansa believes, if she keeps her eyes closed long enough, she could pretend that nothing has changed in Winterfell; that in a few minutes it would be Robb or Bran kneeling beside her or there would be Rickon laughing and throwing snow her way. Arya would have loved to see that.

She could feel her mother brushing her hair and she could see the small, timid smile from Lord Eddard Stark whenever she recites her favorite poems for him. She could feel Jon beside her and she could hear him whisper her name and gently pull her close that she can almost smell his leathery and woodsy scent.

_Sansa._

_Sansa_ , he says and she can’t help a smile forming on her face.

She could go on for the rest of her days just thinking about her family, in this solitary state in the godswood, and she thinks it would be a life so fulfilled. But the sudden rush of the cold wind and a crunch on the snowy ground wakes her from her trance and allows misery to take its place back in the center of her chest.

Sansa takes a deep breath, terrified to feel the all-too familiar feeling of wanting to cry. She knows she cannot hide behind the songs and the poetry that is her life before the chaos had begun. It is a previous life that feels like thousands and thousands of years ago, it doesn’t seem real at all.

The ghosts of that previous life just drift around her now, like the snowflakes that melt in her hands, ungraspable and is forever lost.

It is in this moment of slight panic that Brienne finally makes her presence known, politely begging her pardon, ever graceful whenever she is within Sansa’s presence.

“My lady, I apologize for disturbing you.”

Sansa stands and gives her knight a smile, not wanting to let her see her distress. “Do not fret, Lady Brienne. I’ve just finished my prayers.”

Brienne nods, looking relieved. “Well, that is good to hear then, my lady. Someone of importance just arrived at the keep.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow in question.

“Lord Howland Reed.” Brienne answers. “Podrick is leading him and his men to the Great Hall for some food.”

Sansa has almost forgotten about this visit until she had found the lord’s letter lying about in Jon’s chambers a few days ago, a moment of weakness when she had allowed herself to spend more than an hour or so in his room, pretending he was still there. She had the steward prepare rooms for the lord and his men immediately after that short lapse in her reasoning.

“I am very curious, my lady,” Brienne continues as they walk back towards the castle, the snow still quietly falls around them. “The lord is notoriously private so forgive if I feel that this visit is quite uncanny. I can’t help but wonder what might have brought him out from his home? Can this possibly be about what your King brother is talking about? The Others?”

“There could be many reasons.” replies Sansa, ignoring the quick and yet sharp thud on her chest because she has heard it again. That word. _Brother_.

“But in comparison to all of Jon’s tales of magic and the dead,” she continues, leading up the way towards the gates. “I might not be surprised to hear about any other curiosities anymore.”

The knight grunts and Sansa takes this as an agreement. They are quiet in the remainder of their journey inside the keep and towards the Great Hall but the silence is disrupted once again by Brienne as she draws a heavy breath and speaks. “I think I would just be more comfortable with any visitors if your brother was here, my lady.”

Sansa stops, surprised at the sentiment and turns to face her knight. “Have you finally found a certain endearment to Jon, Lady Brienne?”

She does not know if she has seen Brienne blush this much and Sansa thinks there can never be more comforting than seeing her protector finally put her trust to that other one person that matters most in her life. The knight tries to keep herself composed though and avoids looking at her in the eye. Sansa finds this even more reassuring.  

“Well,” Brienne clears her throat. “He is my king now, I suppose. I should put my loyalty to him as you are loyal to his crown. I have to say his disposition nor his brooding has not greatly improved over the months I have spent here in Winterfell but there is something that tells me he is a good man. That, and I see the way he cares for you, Sansa… as if he’d be willing to exchange his life to save you.”

Brienne pauses and hesitates at first, managing to sneak a nervous glance towards her before continuing, “If only you could see the way… well, the way he looks at you, my lady.”

Sansa blinks her shock and tries to remain impassive as for a while there, she sees a semblance of curiosity flash on Brienne’s face—the same wonderment Sansa herself had carried in her heart the moment she knew of how much Jon meant to her, _of what he is now to her_. It is a terrifying feeling. Curious and yet terrifying.

She does not expect a revelation to happen this soon, though. She knows this scenario could happen one day; that no matter how much she and Jon had been careful with their affections, someone must have noticed. Someone must think there is something peculiar happening between the king and his sister—a tension maybe too palpable it runs all over the entire keep; the whispered words that travel from Jon’s lips for her to receive maybe also echo for everyone to hear.

Sansa knows now, as she starts to move again and the knight has cleared her throat to eradicate the sudden awkwardness, that Brienne must have already caught on. Sansa wonders for how long now and despite feeling slightly shaken at the thought of someone knowing this certain secret, she appreciates that Brienne has remained loyal to her.

“I am sorry, my lady.” the knight calls. “Perhaps, what I said was out of line. I should not meddle with such… interactions. It goes beyond my duty—”

Sansa turns to look at Brienne and gently raises a palm to cut her words.

“There is a proper time to address whatever questions you have in your head, Lady Brienne. I am more than willing to answer it for your peace of mind. But for tonight, we shall first entertain our guests. I know they might be weary from their travel.”

Brienne nods before stepping forward and opening the oak doors of the Great Hall for her. Brienne doesn’t look at all relieved as Sansa might have hoped but her silence on the matter is enough for now; The Lady of Tarth’s silence since the beginning of her and Jon’s affair is more than enough.

Sansa walks in to find the Great Hall almost empty except for a couple of men with whom Podrick and a few stewards are waiting on. The men are dressed in thick cloaks of beige furs, patched up and worn-out, and some of their shields and swords rest on the wooden benches. Without their armory, Sansa thinks, they could have been mistaken as wildlings.

Podrick fidgets as she sees her come closer.

“Lady Sansa… Lady B-Brienne.” he stutters.

The men on the table look up from their plates to watch her cross the room. When she nears the high table, Sansa finally addresses them.

“I apologize for not being able to welcome you at the gates, my lords. I might have missed the call for I was in the godswood. My loyal knight, Lady Brienne of Tarth, had to fetch me from my seclusion.”

A tall man, lanky with graying hair, skin almost transparent, pale with sunken eyes perhaps from restless nights on the way to the North, stands from the bench and walks towards her.

“My lady,” he bows. “For a moment there I thought you were Lady Catelyn. You look just like how I remembered her from our younger years.” He smiles warmly before proceeding. “But time has not been our friend, hasn’t it?”

The old man takes another step and studies her before his eyes lit up in a small delight. “Oh, but to see you up-close is a different matter, isn’t it?” His smile only grows wider if not slightly wary and melancholy. He peeks at her closely, intelligently and with satisfaction.  “I see so much of Ned in you now.”

“Lord Howland Reed,” Sansa curtsies, hoping that with the man’s emboldened stance amongst the others, he is indeed her father’s old friend.

“Forgive my lack of manners, Lady Stark.” Lord Reed chuckles, patting her by the shoulder. “I have not been out of my castle for years I have forgotten what it was like to be back in civilization. Please, my lady, there is no need to be so polite. The gods only know, I am the least of the lords and ladies in this room who deserve it.”

“I hope you’ve had a comfortable journey, my lord?” Sansa inquires. “I welcome you to Winterfell.”

Lord Reed has once again taken his seat beside his men. “It is a cold place, is it not, the castle and the North?”

“Yes, it is.” Sansa replies, almost stoically. “But it could be worse.”

The lord looks up from his plate of food. “So, the rumors are true then? About the Others? About what Jon Snow makes the North believe?”

“You speak as if you are not part of the kingdom, Lord Reed.”

The man chuckles again, returning to grab his spoon which he has absently clanged on his metal bowl. “Perhaps, I have forgotten yet again. Truly, my years in the marshes has made me even more frail than I cared to admit.”

Sansa keeps her emotions at bay but she is starting to get annoyed, not only because the lord and his men look so foreign inside the Great Hall, but the mystery that surrounds Howland Reed terrifies her. She could not care any less for his time in the marshes because for sure, his reason for coming to Winterfell is not good news.

There is never good news anymore.

Podrick leads her to the high table where her own meal awaits. Howland Reed returns to talk to his men and the Great Hall fills with nothing but cutleries scraping over bowls and plates. There are few japes and laughter but more than anything, Sansa is glad that none of the other lords have made their appearance. She can only take so much of their ramblings and questions especially when a new lord arrives at the keep.

When the stewards have cleared the tables and Podrick has gallantly offered to take the newcomers to their chambers, Lord Reed has respectfully declined the offer.

“I shall speak to the lady first, if she does not mind.”

Sansa nods her approval and Lord Reed waits for the hall to empty before he approaches the high table. Brienne stays loyally at Sansa’s side and she is grateful he did not contest this.

“I am very sure there are so many things running inside your head right now, my lady,” the lord starts, taking a seat a few chairs away from Sansa, his wine goblet in hand. “And one of which I know concerns me and this very peculiar visit.”

“I will not lie to you, my lord. It is indeed a peculiar visit.”

“It is not every day though that I hear news about a new King in The North.” the man continues. “But it saddens me that I have apparently missed a chance to see his grace both in his departure from Winterfell and even on the road where I pray to at least have a glance at him.”

“I am sure there would be plenty of time to see his grace.”

Lord Reed smiles. “Then I am glad.”

Sansa watches as he sips from his wine cup and then politely offers the wine carafe in front of her.

“Ever the courteous one, are you?” he chuckles. He pours himself another glassful. “I’ve only heard little about all of Ned’s young wolves but songs about your beauty has crossed the mountains and the rivers of Westeros that when I’ve heard of your betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon, I can also hear young lords weeping everywhere.”

“I have not heard such songs or cries in my lifetime, my lord.” Sansa says stiffly, hearing the evil bastard’s name only resurrects memories she’d rather not remember.

“Oh,” he smiles kindly. “Perhaps you’ve only had your eyes and ears for one.”

“Then how foolish of me to have missed.”

Lord Reed shakes his head. “Please, my lady. Foolish is the last thing I’d impose upon you. You are a young girl, and by all means, have the right to dream only of wonderful and pleasant things. Forgive me if I have made you feel otherwise.”

Sansa would have snorted if she is not at all careful with her manners. But she ignores the temptation and pours herself some more wine instead.

“It is difficult to face the ugliness of our world, Lord Reed.” she starts. “But I have already faced one too many of it and would rather face more than live in the lies of songs and book verses. They are not real. Not to me anyway.”

The old man glances at her thoughtfully. “Then I am very sorry to hear it. Your father and your mother would not have wanted—”

“They are dead.” Sansa replies almost harshly and the man bowed his head perhaps in embarrassment— _pity?_ —and is unable to see her eyes. Behind her, she hears Brienne breathe heavily.

“Indeed, they are.” he says shortly after. “And I am sorry to hear about the young Rickon Stark, too.”

Sansa takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She doesn’t know where the anger is coming from but she feels her head and her heart about to explode. She can take relieving their deaths, she can weep silently in her rooms later on, but she cannot and never will take any signs of pity for her or for her family.

She is a Stark. She is ivory, she is steel.

“Thank you, my lord.” she’s finally able to reply. “I only wish I could have buried them all down at the crypts. But that would have been too fortunate for us wolves.”

Lord Reed shakes his head. “I cannot say this any better than the others who might have already uttered these words to you but my child, your family did not deserve any of it _._ ” He says it with conviction enough for Sansa to hold her breath at the pain, the unfairness, and the injustice that has suddenly run amok in her veins.

She sees the lord grip his wine cup tighter as if he too feels her anger, as if the cup is Joffrey’s neck and he is more than willing to snap and take the breath out of the bastard king once again.

He murmurs, “ _Ned did not deserve it._ ”

Sansa feels her heart leap at the slight intimacy of it, at the slight rage that quickly takes over the pallid lord. His knuckles have turned white at the pressure, his neck almost red.

So, it’s true. Howland Reed was once one of the greatest friends of her father.

“I look at your family and I see a family strong and honorable. Lost, dwindled, _but never gone._ ” he insists with more ounce of conviction than his first declaration.

“My family…” Sansa tries to speak but her breath is caught in her throat, surprised at the sudden overwhelming feeling. Foreign to her and the placid disposition she tries to observe daily, but she looks at her hand and she is shaking.

She doesn’t realize this earlier on, or perhaps even days and months ago, but it is dawning now, her tears threatening to fall.

_She needs this._

She doesn’t realize how much she needs to talk about her family again and speak of them in words spoken and not just as names that flash in her thoughts or prayers.

“Everyone has outwitted me,” Sansa speaks again after a breath, now feeling more courageous, feeling more uninhibited. She lets the words free her like a breath of fresh air to her drowning body. And she needs Howland Reed to listen. “Everyone was always much cleverer than I was. But I was focused on getting my family avenged. So I wanted to be wiser, I wanted to be a player in the games. I wanted all of them to see my wrath and see how the Starks rise again.”

Sansa lets it all out: her anger, her disappointment, her sadness. She wonders why in the presence of this strange man but his kind eyes make her feel that her vulnerability would not be judged in this moment and that more than anything else, he wants her to continue on, as if he understands.

“I won in my chosen games, my lord.” Sansa continues, the words pouring out of her again like a glass of wine upturned. “I’ve killed and I’ve seen blood. But when the chaos was over, when I returned and conquered Winterfell, my childhood home, it all came crashing down on me.”

She looks at the lord and smiles sadly, “No matter how hard I fought, the emptiness is still here.”

The lord is stoic as she says this so Sansa takes her wine goblet instead and swivels, sloshing its contents. It must have been awkward for both Lord Reed and Brienne to hear her confession but for once, she does not care. She also knows how much of her sadness is painted on her face and yet she does not feel one bit bothered by it. Perhaps the wine has already gotten into her for her to be so bold or perhaps, she just cannot take the weight of all the pretending.

It is not even the entirety, too, of what she is feeling.

“Perhaps I’ve done something much worse for I realized,” Sansa faintly continues. “I have never even had the chance to do the most important thing for our lost family.”

“And what is it, my lady?” the old man asks.

“ _Grieve_.”

Lord Reed now swivels his own wine goblet as he nods at her. Brienne is silent by her side still but Sansa can almost feel her wanting to come closer and offer some consolation, maybe some kind words about her mother.

“Ever since Joffrey had my father beheaded,” adds Sansa as she settles her cup back on the table. “I am consumed by anger. Who would not be? So, I wanted to survive the madness of the Red Keep to have a chance at revenge. But after losing my brother and mother at the Red Wedding, the pain was just unfathomable; growing and escalating. It was taking over me in a pace I could not control. Soon after, I was just numb. I barely survived at the hands of Ramsey Bolton if not for the faintest hope that, indeed, the North has remembered. But I wake up every morning, looking at fresh cuts and bruises and realize, they don’t remember me at all; that I am all alone, that I only have myself. At that point, I was already willing to do whatever it takes so they won’t own me or my family. Not anymore.”

“You were blinded.” affirms the lord.

“I was blinded with rage, yes, so I have forgotten about them for some time.” Sansa bitterly admits. “I have forgotten what I was truly fighting for. _My family_. I have forgotten what my father last told me before he died. I have forgotten Robb’s favorite food, I have forgotten how my mother favors her hair during the day… it seems silly to hear now, doesn’t it? It is silly but I don’t want to forget about them anymore.”

Sansa watches as Lord Reed takes another swig then turns to look at her. “Family _. Family, duty, honor_. Your mother’s family motto, you have that well etched in your heart.”

He has a faraway look then, when he speaks the next words and for a moment, Sansa can also feel his certain sadness. “I remember your father most, of course. He was a good man. His devotion to his family and the Stark name is a feat most men can only hope to wear and accomplish. A lot of people has admired your father—those beside him during the rebellion, those from afar, those in the sidelines of the court… A lot of people wanted him to be king.” he looks back at her with fond a grin. “But your father, kind and honorable Ned Stark, only wanted to go home. Like you.”

Sansa feels her chest tighten. But she does not allow unshed tears to fall and instead lets herself feel proud; proud of her father, of what he had accomplished, of the Stark name he passed on to his children— _to her_. Lord Reed’s kind words feel like a salve to every burns and insults marked on her skin by the Lannisters and the Boltons because they could take away her happiness and her peace, her beautiful face and her riches, but they could not take away the certain truth that Ned Stark was the man she will always call father, her father that will always be a better man than all of them.

“You saved him, Lord Reed,” she is able to whisper amidst her trembling breath. “That is a story I know so well and you will have my lifetime of thanks for what you did.”

He looks at her with such regret in his eyes Sansa feels like it was the wrong thing to say. His voice didn’t waiver but his face is overcome with grief. “My only regret is that I was not able to save him again from a far greater injustice. I will never forgive myself for not being able to do anything. I was… I was bested by my own fear, of my own sworn words and promises.”

“We all wish we could have done much more, my lord.”

“You cannot blame yourself for that, Lady Stark. You were young. And I am sure your lord father would not want you in any harm’s way.”

“I was young and foolish and it has cost the lives of my family. Bran and Arya are lost to us and they are two more people I am not ready to grieve for, not when the silence of Winterfell reminds me every day of the people I’ve already failed. Now, I only have Jon. And sometimes I feel like I do not deserve him too.”

“My child, we all feel that we do not deserve a lot of things.” he sympathizes. “Forgiveness, love, family… it is pitiful this world of ours make us feel inadequate despite the words of reassurances spoken by the people most dear to us. And your words, perhaps, do not make them feel enough either.”

“This is, indeed, a sad world. Sometimes, I do not know how much of it I could take.”

“So young,” he says thoughtfully at her. “So young to be shouldering the burdens of the world and of the mistake of others.”

“Perhaps, it is my fate.” Sansa shrugs.

“Perhaps.”

Gathering her composure, Sansa takes another deep breath before uttering the words that have consumed the entire keep ever since his letter arrived. “Why have you come here, my lord?”

Lord Reed studies her once more; frowning, deciding. He smiles sadly before shaking his head and softly speaks.

“I do not want you to bear any other burdens on your own, my lady. Once in a while, we deserve to be shielded away from certain truths—even just for a night. Perhaps once the King has returned, you both shall know.”

With that, he stands up from the bench and walks towards her. Memories of Lord Eddard Stark cross Sansa’s mind as she sees him in the old man’s fine lines and graying hair. And then when the lord holds her face before he leaves the hall, patting it slightly and looking down at her with kindness as if he too grieved for her losses, as if he wants to wish her a good night; to dream the sweetest dreams—even if they both know it is impossible—it is more than the memories of Eddard Stark that Sansa remembers.

Mayhap, it is her father himself that brought Howland Reed to Winterfell for whatever reasons.

Sansa watches as the old man retreats with Brienne and walks the aisle to the oak doors. If she looks closely enough, Sansa could almost see the heavy load he carries in his heart and in which she knows will someday be hers.

She sips her wine as the fire fizzles in the room and she grieves, finally, for her own heart. Her heart that currently travels the dangerous path to the South; her heart that she wants nothing but to come back home to her.

* * *

 


	11. Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we are back at this! :)

When the cold winds turned into a salty, warm breeze, Jon knew he was long away from Winterfell and he cannot deny the slight panic and fear that ran through him; confessing that he truly is in uncharted territory and with barely enough men to protect and fight with him if by chance this parlay goes awry, perhaps he may never survive it.

The south, for what his eyes can feast on, has different colors, different textures, and different smells. Jon doesn’t know if he has seen this much green since he left Winterfell for the Wall all those years ago.

Years that already feels like another lifetime.

But the green of the grass has led them to a place that oddly and ironically looks almost tragic with wear, as if the angry waves crashing on its shores have also turned it into a raging, dark monster; sharp and unpetrified—perhaps just like the Houses it once had sheltered.

In this corner of Jon Snow’s sudden and uncalled reality of being King, finally setting foot in Dragonstone feels like another dream world; like the Night King himself, like the first time he has seen the Wall; like the ethereal moment he had with Sansa upon her appearance in Castle Black’s courtyard.

Unforgettable and almost deeply penetrating.

So now, Jon wonders: _what has he done to deserve all these kinds of enchantment?_

Near the window, someone huffed as if he too cannot take the overwhelming distraught the place holds. Overlooking the angry sea waves, Davos Seaworth has a frown on his face etched slightly with nervousness and disdain.

“I never liked this place.” he says roughly, annoyed perhaps for being asked to wait in an almost dark room despite his insistence that royalty—Jon Snow, the _King in the North_ —must never be kept waiting. “After everything that has happened, it still feels like the realm of grief and depression. I was hoping someone could have lightened the place up.”

Jon does not know what to reply. He’s never been this far south and the sullenness of Dragonstone, albeit eerie in its own ways, is not far from the cold, emptiness of the Wall. What does a bastard like him know of lightening up a keep?

Perhaps, Sansa…  

Jon closes his eyes and tries to alleviate the longing—to no avail, of course. But the lie he feeds his thoughts make him stand this endeavor and distance much longer.

 _You are doing this for her_.

“This place is full of horrors.” Ser Davos darkly continues, sounding more agitated. “Not only of how it looks, but this castle is filled with unexplained mysteries.”

Curious, and finally lifting his eyes to meet his knight, Jon asks, “Did the Red Priestess brought that upon the keep?”

Davos shakes his head. “No, your grace. Dragonstone has been haunted long before Stannis was put here by King Robert. Targaryens’ blood runs through the very walls of this castle and some says their madness has taken over.”

Jon looks around. The dingy walls look almost molded and shiny with damp. It reminds him of the crypts down in Winterfell and he is instantly overwhelmed again with the feeling of home and of how he suddenly longed for the hot springs and even just a stolen glimpse of a weirwood tree.

_He is not supposed to be here._

“I wish for nothing more but to get out of this place.” Jon hears Ser Davos say, walking finally to sit on the chair next to him.

Jon wishes for nothing else too except for the same thing, to get out of this place. To go home—and then perhaps to acquire even a little of Ser Davos’ bravery and honesty of wanting and needing to run. If only he could, Jon thinks, if only he had not seen with his own eyes the nightmares of winter, he would have already swept Sansa’s feet away and they would already probably be in Essos.

Lord Eddard Stark’s honor be damned.

Jon wonders if all Kings—and Queens—feel this way, the agony of wanting and yet failing to escape the madness of responsibilities. But Jon has never heard of Kings bequeathing their power for a certain freedom. Perhaps their wants are far more dreadful than his, evidently craving for more. He wonders, did Robb want the kingship the way most men want to?

His chest aches as he thought of his lost brother.

 _He should be the one in here_ , Jon says to himself. _He is the King_ , _the rightful King._

But like him, he was betrayed; then _unlike_ him, Robb did not survive while he did. And what an irony it was to have him— _the bastard_ —survive this all when the good ones like Robb and Lord Eddard Stark have not.

Sansa’s words echo in his thoughts: _Are we doing the right thing?_

_Will I make them proud?_

The door of the chamber creaks lightly and Jon looks up as does Ser Davos. An armored solider stands guard in the corridor and Jon could lightly hear footsteps getting closer. Jon stands and rounds the table to the center of the room, waiting on what feels like a thousand years for the person to finally reveal himself.

A shadow erupts and then a foot, and then another, then a body, a blonde hair; a dwarf, bearded and almost unrecognizable from the last time Jon has seen him and yet, unmistakable—so as the gleaming silver pin right across his chest.

“ _Jon Snow._ ” the man speaks as he stops a few feet from him, placing his hands behind his back and looking perceptive as always.

“Oh, but forgive me,” he continues with a small wondering smile. “It is _your grace_ now, isn’t it?”

“ _Lord Tyrion_.” Jon takes a deep breath.

“Ahh, he speaks.” Tyrion smiles again. “You still are really not much of a talker are you, your highness? Those days at the Wall seem to not have changed that and yet,” Tyrion glances observantly, eyes crinkling as if filled with curious discoveries. “— _you are changed._ ”

“As you are, my lord.” Jon replies easily, also taking a good look at the imp. Tyrion Lannister is clad in black leather and now wears a mustache that make him look far older than Jon last remembers. The famous Lannister arrogance and smirk is also seemingly gone from his face but his eyes still reveal the wit and intelligence Jon has admired him for.

“Sit down, please.” Tyrion insists, “I believe this will be a lengthy discussion.”

Jon walks back to his chair, hearing Tyrion’s footsteps just right beside him. He also hears Ser Davos gruff from the other side.

“Ahh, Lord Seaworth.” Tyrion almost sounds cheerful, glancing at the old man when all three of them are finally seated. “I am pleased that we are to finally meet in a more suitable and _calmer_ setting.”

“I say likewise, my lord.” says Davos. “But the news we bring may not be as bright as you would have hoped.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow at Jon.

Jon takes a deep breath and gives Davos an almost annoyed look—which the man just shakes his head at, still looking impatient.

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon starts, intertwining his hands atop the table. “I know the raven we sent must have been vague in details for we do not want you to conclude on the issue at hand without us here, in your presence to explain further.”

“I have to say it is not the content of the letters that I find quite _chilling_ ,” Tyrion replies. “It is the intent of it—and the signature that comes along underneath that I have to admit, again, was not an appealing factor for my queen.”

“Jon Snow _is_ the King in the North,” Ser Davos retaliates. “Proclaimed by those who are loyal to the Northern Kingdom, to the Stark name, to Lady Sansa—”

 _“Sansa?”_ Tyrion stresses, surprised and if Jon can see clearly, relieved. “She is alive?”

Jon nods, ignoring the sudden prickling feeling on his neck.

“Yes.” He reiterates, trying to be as patient as possible. “Sansa is alive. I have found her—or rather, she found me. Moons and moons ago. We both took Winterfell back from the Boltons.”

Tyrion looks thoughtful as he finally reaches for his goblet and poured himself some wine. He took a sip, appeasing himself with the news, and asks, “How is she?”

Jon feels the annoyance again and peers at Tyrion with a frown on his face. But the imp is looking elsewhere, in the randomness of the wood carvings of the table with his mind seemingly miles away. What’s worse and has made his temper rise even more, is the ostensibly _fond_ look Tyrion has on his face.

Jon wants to scowl and remind the lord that he is not here to talk about Sansa albeit he is doing this for her. But the unexpected _rage_ he feels in the simple thought that Sansa is also currently in Tyrion Lannister’s head catches him off-guard, making him (unreasonably think) that perhaps, this trip can only truly be worth all the trouble if only he can save himself from witnessing her name slipping out from the lips of someone who once was a source of her torment.

“She is well, Lord Tyrion.” Jon finally is able to reply after a deep breath, rewarding himself as well by throwing in a snide remark. “As well as anyone could be after years of dealing with your family.”

Tyrion quirks an eyebrow and finally breaks his trance to look at Jon fully.

“A point well-taken, _your grace_.” Tyrion mocks a bow and grins, sipping from his wine cup again. Then after, “You’ve come a long way from how I remembered you, Jon.”

Ser Davos looks offended with Tyrion’s lack of title, but Jon disregards him.

This. This is the Tyrion he remembers. And there is no time for any other formalities except for completing the purpose of this travel.

“A lot has happened since our time at the Wall.” Tyrion continues, placing his wine cup back on the table. He folds his arm to his chest and looks at Jon. “So please, indulge me with your stories and let’s try to fill in the gap.”

Jon glances at Ser Davos and the old man nods in encouragement.

But before Jon begins his plea, “And your Queen, won’t she be joining us?”

Tyrion sighs again. “Do you think Daenerys Targaryen wants to sit down and talk to another monarch who claims the Northern Kingdom—her kingdom—as his own independent land? You have to wonder why her dragons have not breathed fire on you yet.”

Jon knowingly looks back at Davos whose eyes are wide with wonder.

“So, it is true,” Davos exclaims to Tyrion. “She has dragons?”

“Three dragons, I’m afraid.” the lord quips back. “Triplets she calls her children. They follow whatever she commands, burn cities if she asks, riot when they’re forgotten to be fed… _children_ , just like I said.”

Jon nods more solemnly. The disbelief that plagues his chest at the absurdity of _dragons_ in Westeros is instantly trumped by the same absurdity he felt about the existence of the White Walkers. That at first it feels ungraspable. And only when the moment is already too late that the notion sinks hard inside the chest that there is no escaping its truth.

Jon then looks at Tyrion with more determination. Surely, with dragons as his companions lately, he would understand.

“Then you must know why we are here, Lord Tyrion.” says Jon. “Of why we need your help. Of why we need Daenerys Targaryen’s help.”

“White Walkers.” Tyrion flatly replies. “That’s what you said in your letter to the queen.”

“They are coming.” Jon says straightforwardly, not wanting to delay the truth anymore. “I have seen them with my own eyes and if we want a chance to live and see dawn—”

Tyrion shakes his hand impatiently. “I have read your letter, Jon. I have read the books, too—the old people’s tales. But if what you are saying is true, that these White Walkers are marching down south to rule us all, then how come they haven’t done so in the past years? Hundreds and hundreds of years ago?”

Jon exhales and slumps in his chair. Defeat is threatening at his bones and Sansa’s words from a conversation moons ago reminds him that this is not an easy task at all.

 _They don’t believe such a thing exists_.

But they do exist, Jon wants to scream.

He sighs and shakes his head before glancing back to the Hand of the Queen. “I don’t know, Lord Tyrion. I don’t know why they finally decided to do now what they have done north of the wall but gods, _they are doing it_. They have killed men, women, and children and turned them into monsters like themselves. If they successfully occupy the north, the rest of Westeros don’t stand a chance. Not a single drop of it.”

“And how, do you suggest the Dragon Queen help you with this endeavor?”

“ _The dragons_ ,” Jon says almost passionately. “Her dragons. Fire fights with the cold. And then your armies and the dragonglass we heard are abundant this part of world.”

Tyrion is quiet for a while, deep in thoughts, and his silence is eating the last of Jon’s patience and hope. He can no longer explain the north’s situation better than lifting the words from his experiences and Jon thinks, if those are not enough for the Dragon Queen, then win or lose, they will be fighting on their own.

“If,” Tyrion finally speaks again, scratching on the wood of his armrest. “If the queen decides to help the north, what would her majesty expect in return?”

Jon knows this part. Countless times he has this question played in his head every night at inns or every morning on their journey while on horse. This is also the easy banter he sees Sansa play with every lord in the Great Hall during dinner and reminds him of his own exchange with Littlefinger.

He is playing the game of thrones now.

Jon straightens up. “I offer peace.”

Tyrion does not reply, prompting him to go on.

“I offer peace to both the north and the south. We keep to our borders, you keep to yours. The north will not attempt to take what is not theirs. The Iron Throne is hers, the Northern Kingdom is mine.”

Tyrion smiles. “You make it sound like it is an easy task to do, parting the seven kingdoms.”

“It is,” Jon shrugs. “Men has died fighting for an iron chair long tainted and corrupt. The only enemy in my eyes are the White Walkers. And once they are eliminated, everything else will be easier. We can start anew. All of us.”

“You may have forgotten another variable in this grand plan, your grace.” Tyrion shakes his head. “What of my sister then, the Queen Cersei sitting now on the throne?”

“You win against the White Walkers, you win against them all.”

Tyrion actually laughs. Jon and Davos exchange looks and Jon can’t help but feel slightly disrespected at the untoward dismissal.

But Tyrion recovers, wiping tears from his eyes as he calms himself. “Oh, but forgive me, gentlemen. I just had this wonderful image in my head where my dear sister is faced with a White Walker. Can you imagine, Cersei Lannister having a face-off with the undead? That is a battle I would surely not want to miss.”

Jon keep his composure.

“Whatever you want to do with your sister is up to you and your queen. Like I said, we have no interest on the Iron Throne.” he urges. “It is yours—hers—we do not contest her right for it.”

“And what of her right to the north?” Tyrion sighs finally, arranging himself on the chair, and studies him again. “Do you think she will not contest your ruling?”

 “What is there to contest?” Davos suddenly speaks up. “The man is Lord Eddard Stark’s son, the blood that runs through his veins is the same blood of the First Men, men who ruled Westeros long before the Targaryens came.”

Tyrion looks down as quietly he says, “But a bastard…”

It pierces Jon like the old longing from time past; when Catelyn Stark did not mind one bit of the gashes he acquired after falling off a horse; with the betrayal of his brothers, with his father’s broken promise.

_The next time we see each other, we will talk about your mother._

“People of the north chose Jon Snow to be King!” Davos exclaims, releasing Jon from the agony of his thoughts. “If the dragon queen contests this, perhaps she should go north and ask them herself.”

Jon is silent not only from the pain of his baseborn birth but for the irony of it all, evoking more memories again of his dead brother Robb who is supposed to be King. Not him.

He has never been comfortable with the sudden reverence the northern men and women thrust upon him and at this moment, Jon is only truly grateful for the old man’s presence here for he knows Davos’ words will and never can come out of his own mouth.

“That is admirable, truly,” Tyrion agrees, looking up once again and even offering an apologetic smile to Jon. “But the queen’s intention is to rule all of the seven kingdoms, as it is her right.”

“The Mad King has failed,” Davos argues again. “And the Targaryens’ reign has ended during his fall. And what your Dragon Queen is doing now is just another attempt to usurp the reigning house. It is nothing we haven’t seen Robert Baratheon has already done.”

“Davos,” Jon warns.

But Tyrion smiles thoughtfully. “You did serve a Baratheon, Ser Davos. The amount I’d pay to have such loyalty.”

Davos is taken-aback. “My loyalty is not measured in silvers!”

“I jape,” Tyrion extends his hand. “I jape. Please, you have to know I sometimes speak too much for my own good.”

Davos grumbles as Tyrion proceeds.

“But it is complicated.” Tyrion tells to no one in particular. “Three monarchs and a monster king up north fighting and scheming and gallivanting and sometimes you just have to wonder,” Tyrion finally looks at Jon, leans forward and whispers with sincere curiosity, “All of this chaos and _for what?”_

The answer crosses Jon’s mind in an instant but he stops himself before he utters the word—before he utters her name.

_Because who else?_

In return, Jon can only ask the same thing. “Then what do you fight for, Lord Tyrion?”

The man chuckles and shakes his head, retrieving his wine cup, “I fight for the day these all end and I can whore my way and drink wine as I take my last breath. I am a man of simple wants, your grace.”

“But like you said, this is not a simple world.”

Tyrion raises the cup to him, as a salute, before drinking.

Jon shrugs back on his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. He admits, he could use a rest and a bath to clear his head. Then perhaps, go home finally for he feels nothing good will come out of this journey, not when Tyrion has made clear of what the Targaryen Queen’s real intention in Westeros.

She won’t come fighting with them in the north.

Jon looks up as Tyrion places his wine cup back on the table with a thud.

“You know,” the imp says with a smile. “Lord Eddard Stark would be quite proud of what you’ve done here today.”

Jon stiffens in his seat.

_Would father actually be proud?_

“You are not anymore the boy who stupidly chose the black.” Tyrion sniggers. “And what fortune it is to see you transform into this man.”

Tyrion stands from the chair and places his hands once again behind his back.

“I will try to convince the queen to finally meet with you,” he says with finality. “We may have a chance in convincing her, if we play it right.”

“ _We?_ ” Jon asks in disbelief. “You mean you support me on this, Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion takes a deep breath and shrugs. “I see no reason why you have to make up such a story. We may have been part of warring families from when we met but I admired the Starks.”

Jon stands, feeling the hope re-energizing him once again. “Thank you, my lord.”

Tyrion shakes his head as he walks away. “Don’t thank me yet, your grace. We may still have a long way to go.”

“Then I will gladly walk through it.”

“Good. Just like the way I remember your sister bravely did.”

Then Tyrion turns around and faces him with a fond smile Jon can’t help but feel the irk despite the slightly good news. Tyrion looks thoughtful albeit regret and sadness is also now prominent on his face.

“After everything that she had to go through,” Tyrion recalls with a sad smile. “Perhaps, this is also the least that I could do for her.”

And with that, the lord finally gives a final nod before walking away from the chambers.

Sitting down, with exhaustion now truly creeping up into his every nerve and muscle, Jon tries to placate himself from his now confused state of panic, hope, and slight _jealousy_  for he is most definitely unsure of how worthy this journey might truly be.

* * *

 


	12. Faults

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love for Sansa Stark is endless. I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

The damp, earthy smell of the glass garden is something Sansa is not particularly fond of while growing up. She remembers that despite the lushness and the scenery before her, she can’t always help but scrunch up her nose whenever she visits with her lady mother or that one time she decided to hide behind one of the large bushes when she was playing a game with her siblings.

Today, she welcomes this smell and of the warmth of the newly reconstructed glass gardens with open arms. She’s been sitting in an old rickety chair in the middle of the room for a time now, finishing a cloak she wishes to give to Jon once he returns from the South. This needle work and the slight joy the greenery of the glass garden offer make her forget (at least for the time being) of the ugly reason behind his departure and of the winter winds that blow just right outside.

She hears Brienne’s armor make clanging sounds as her knight rounds the room, surveying for any threats lurking, while she sees Podrick patiently standing by the door with clear instructions to advice any oncoming visitor that the Lady of Winterfell does not wish to be disrupted at the moment. Ghost, who also becomes her constant companion for most of the days, sleeps soundly right on her feet.

Sansa knows she’s been in the glass garden for far too long and perhaps has missed some reports and petitions in the keep but she indulges herself more, not really wanting to face any of the lords yet—including and mostly in particular, both Littlefinger and Lord Reed.

Littlefinger, while keeps to himself and his knights most of the time, still gives her those almost nauseating glances whenever he thinks she does not notice. Dinners in the Great Hall are far more inviting whenever the steward announces Littlefinger’s absence for the night.

Lord Reed, on the other hand, is a far more mysterious matter. He does not act pompous like the other lords and almost seemingly possesses a certain kind of disdain with the title. She finds him walking almost always with the common folk and the free folk while sharing their bread and to her surprise, leads some of the repairs in Winterfell. Sansa thanks him more than enough for his comfort that on the last time she did, he chuckled but silently whispers only for her to hear,

“This is what Ned would have wanted me to do.”

And Sansa does not know how to respond to that, of how Lord Reed still so much reveres her dead father that she feels the pride and, yet still, the insecurity that neither she nor Jon can live up to Lord Eddard Stark’s leadership.

Then there’s still of course the real matter of why Lord Reed has come to Winterfell. Apart from her, perhaps the lord is the next one that most anticipates Jon’s return. He still never mentions anything about it during their conversations but there is the growing impatience and yet dread she sees in his eyes whenever she mentions the King in the North.

Sansa places the cloak and needle down to her lap, now slightly perturbed herself.

 _Jon_ , she thinks of his name.

Ghost stirs and looks up at her and she only offers him an assuring grin. Still, the wolf stares for a while.

 _If you only know, Ghost_ , Sansa thinks to herself as she reaches down and scratches his ear. _Of how agonizing it is just to think about him_.

The wolf moves closer and indulges in her touch. Then he licks her fingers as a thank you before deciding that nothing seems out of place at the moment and settles back on his paws.

 _Or maybe he does know_ , Sansa wonders. _That like me, Ghost longs for Jon_.

She does not even count the moons that have passed since she last saw Jon for she knows it will only add to the ache and fear in her chest. Only a handful of letters have arrived with words always too polite, too guarded, and too impersonal for Sansa to even attempt to look for some semblance of reassurance or warmth. She knows he’d done this in case the letters fall into the wrong hands, but still, the deliberate indifference pierces something in her.

Jon is Jon any which case. Too honorable, too careful, too responsible.

Sansa loves and hates him for it at this moment.

And in the haziness of her mind during nights when her eyelids feel like iron and lead from sleep, she sometimes conceives plans on how to get back at him—on how to make him endure this pain of waiting the way she is suffering now. She thinks of running away, of going to the free folk’s camp or to Bear Island without his permission. Just the wonder of how Jon will react peculiarly thrills Sansa to her bones.

It does feel nice to be wanted. To be loved.

But sometimes on the same nights, she would realize how foolish running away would seem; a waste of time. A waste of effort—a childish distraction to the war that is to come. A risk, too, because how worthy is she, truly, for Jon to choose instead of saving the realm from the White Walkers?

Sansa bitterly sniggers. She has always been a burden to the world.

Shaking her head with the silly thoughts, she gets back to working on the cloak, pushing and pulling the needle into the leather. She hears Brienne closing in her perimeter in the middle of the garden and the glass walls faintly rattle with the winds. Ghost whimpers and stands in excitement and gazes out.

“You know I can’t let you out yet,” Sansa whispers to the wolf. “You and I, we have clear instructions not to go outside the walls of Winterfell.”

Ghost turns to her, his red eyes gleaming and pleading. The cold rush of the wind in the woods is just too appealing.

“If I can’t go out,” Sansa playfully argues as Ghost angles himself closer as if asking her permission. “ _You can’t go out, too_.”

The direwolf huffs and Sansa lets out a giggle. She watches as he runs to the edge of the glass gardens and insistently looks outside as now, the snow also begins to fall.

Sansa calls for him again but to no avail.

“Mayhap we can let the direwolf hunt tomorrow, my lady? I can have some of the guards watch out for him.” Sansa hears Brienne say behind her.

“Perhaps,” Sansa replies distractedly, her eyes following Ghost as he now disappears behind the bushes, possibly finding a way to get out of the enclosed space. “We just have to make sure we have him back immediately incase Jon returns. When he finds out that Ghost is wandering, he will have all our heads.”

Brienne snorts. “I am sure he will make an exception.”

Sansa turns and eyes her knight warily, almost wanting to reprimand her for her telling words but Brienne is facing the woods outside with an expression also so knowing—soft and almost fond, anticipatory as if there is a secret at play—that Sansa keeps her mouth shut for she cannot believe the sudden relief that floods her.

Brienne, for all the honor and care she has gifted Sansa, the most important perhaps, is her quiet acceptance of whatever is happening between her and Jon. Sansa has not even fathomed before at how much she needs that validation. She feels her hand shake with gratitude and her chest might just explode in any moment now.

Looking down on the cloak, with some adjustment on the length and patterns, perhaps a Tarth sigil would not look so bad in it. Sansa is sure Jon would not mind not having a new clothing when he returns.

She smiles at Brienne who finally nods back at her, as if in understanding and that Sansa’s similarly silent ‘ _thank you_ ’ is very much appreciated.

“I shall have your food ready, Lady Sansa.”

With another nod, Brienne walks to where Podrick stands faithfully, sure to ask her squire to retrieve something from the kitchens. Ghost also finally emerges behind the growing vines of winter roses and jogs back to his place beside Sansa.

“Would you stay, please? I promise this would be over soon.” said Sansa, running her hand on his white fur when he got closer, then brings her attention back to the cloak. Ghost lets out another displeased huff but nonetheless settles back on his paws.

Sansa welcomes the familiar silence once again and no sooner, she’s also well back into the rhythm of her sewing. But she is not far too long into starting to re-stitch the cloak to Brienne’s figure when the doors to the glass gardens swing soundly.

“My lady!” Podrick exclaims, running towards her. Sansa stands in surprise and so does Ghost, almost defensively; both of them feeling edgy.

“My lady,” Podrick says again as he reaches her, panting. “Banners on the King’s Road… _Stark banners_ …”

She jolts and feels the anticipation growing in her belly, the cloak slipping from her grasp and unto the floor, forgotten. Ghost whimpers beside her.

“… coming from Wintertown,” Podrick continues with a deep breath. “Already on the way here, to Winterfell.”

Sansa tries to keep her hands from shaking by holding on to the skirt of her dress. Ghost has already bolted into a run and into the keep the moment Podrick finishes. She tries to walk calmly, following where the direwolf has gone.

She asks, “How have we known?”

“An advanced party of three men have already returned to send word.” answers Podrick. “They say the King aims to be here before dusk. Lady Brienne has asked me to come get you.”

Sansa nods mindlessly, still gripping her skirt tightly to keep her composure. Once they’ve crossed the entrance to the main keep, she sees servants running around preparing for the King’s arrival; soldiers bowing down as she passes and Lords asking if they should plan a small feast—hasty, but still, a feast. Sansa encourages them to do what they feel is right, barely stopping in her tracks to discuss details, affirming that the great Lords’ stewards shall know best for such an impromptu gathering.

Deep in the keep, more people seem to walk past and bow down to her with Sansa barely keeping track, projecting her practiced smile and composure but all the while feeling lost to the overwhelming feeling because,

_Jon._

_Jon is on his way home_.  

And it feels like a dream. Sansa feels like she is walking in it.

Podrick mumbles behind her and Sansa grapples to hear the words.

“The kitchens, my lady.” he says. “The men are in the kitchens should you wish to talk to them.”

“Thank you, Podrick.”

“Shall I walk you—”

But Sansa shakes her head. She can’t possibly tie two string of words together to properly converse with the men she knows are also tired from the journey. That can wait.

Sansa dismisses Pod, entrusting him in preparing the King’s chambers, an honor Sansa also knows Podrick takes to heart.

Now alone, both her feet still feel like they have a mind on their own, leading her _somewhere_ in the keep. But her emotions that run amok a few seconds ago, surprisingly found solace in her chest the moment she steps out to the courtyard and the soft fall of snow touches her face. Sansa breathes in the cold, wanting to find something to hold on to in lieu of the seemingly miraculous news; something that could ground her and tell her it is true. For the fear in her heart remains, after all this time, that nothing good comes out from a Stark going south.

But this, this news of Jon’s return is news she embraces fully even in disbelief.

She sees Ghost walking back and forth in front of the gates, surely waiting for his master’s return. She wants to appease him or perhaps she wants him to appease her. But Sansa cannot, for the life of her, take this moment away from Jon, too. Perhaps immediately seeing Ghost in front of the gates can assure _him_ that it is true. That he is home.

Sansa searches support elsewhere, mindlessly walking again until she reaches the doors to the crypts. Her heart falters in sadness because how different would all of this be if Rickon or Robb are here to wait with her?

So slowly, she pushes the doors, welcoming the darkness and the slight damp warmth. The lamps and candles faintly light the cobbled walk way and Sansa finds herself knowing and yet unknowing where she wants to go; past the figures of her ancestors, past the old Kings and wives and direwolves alike; past the resting place of Lady, past the newly erected statue of Rickon; the spaces for Robb and her lady mother which Jon insisted they should build as soon as the war is over.

She walks past her grandfather, her aunt Lyanna, and then there, Sansa stops—feeling it is the right moment—only to see she has ended right in front of the statue of Lord Eddard Stark.

Somberly, Sansa looks up to his kind face that so suddenly, she feels her heart break. Flashes of when Ilyn Payne took Ice and swung to take her father’s head fills her mind; of the porcelain doll she has left in her room in King’s Landing, of the silent grief on his face when he was about to kill Lady; then of his desperation to get her and Arya back home only for her—stupid, idiot Sansa—to break his faith.

She doesn’t know why she is here in the crypts and looking helplessly at her father for her only rational thought the moment Podrick announces Jon is on his way home, was to thank the Old Gods and sneak her way into the godswood. But perhaps even if blindly and thoughtlessly coming here, her mind must already know how thanking the Old Gods does not seem truly enough. Even if unknowingly at first, and only fully realizing now how she finds the most comfort when her family surrounds her, Sansa knows her lord father is the only one that she should thank for this miracle.

She does not know the reason why but she just knows.

Lord Eddard Stark led Jon home, and that, Sansa is sure of.

She walks closer and reaches to touch his stone hand. The cold surprises her but the imagery warms her heart. When once it was her father who reassures her, clasping her hand tight when she fears the storm or the bloody jousting tournament, this time, she is reassuring him.

For what, Sansa is unsure. There are so many.

She is assuring him that Winterfell still stands strong, that mother and Robb and Rickon are avenged, that the search for Bran and Arya will soon begin, that his memory are still highly regarded in the north, that their name stands proud once again.

Sansa assures him that she is here, _alive_ —breathing, surviving—as what he had always intended.

She is here and so is Jon.

And that she loves him, and perhaps, he loves her too.

In ways perhaps father will not understand or accept, but still, Sansa wants to assure him.

 _We are alright_.

And Sansa hopes, that is enough.

She walks away from the statue only to sit in front of it and wait, like the little girl she once was who would hide from Robb during their games only for Lord Eddard to find her soundly asleep in the stables.

 _We are alright, father_. She assures him once again.

Sansa doesn’t know how long she stayed in the crypts nor did she realize the tears that fell during her stay. Only when the doors softly open and Brienne stands in the entryway does Sansa feel her nerves come back to her and hastily wipes her face.

“My lady,” Brienne says quietly. “The King is almost here. Should we wait in the courtyard to greet him?”

Sansa nods, standing and composing herself and stealing a quick glance to her father before walking out to the bright courtyard, Brienne faithfully following behind her.

She takes the courtyard in, seeing it lining up with lords and servants alike, bracing the cold only so they could see their king.

 _What faith_ , she tells herself. _What loyalty_.

“Few more men have already arrived to share the rest of the party’s whereabouts. Your bro— _the King_ —still does not wish to use any ravens.” Brienne informs her as they take their position right in front of the keep. “They would reach Winterfell any moment now.”

It is so like Jon to ensure everything like a battle plan, especially when she is not there to contradict him. The courtyard is getting fuller and fuller and it is only when Ghost starts to scratch on the gates that Brienne finally lets out the signal to finally open it.

Immediately, Ghost runs to the open space. Few of the people laughs at his antics. And far away, Sansa sees the setting glow of the sun, faintly coloring the always gray clouds of the north. There is also freshly stomped snow that mimics a narrow path that extends over to the nearby hill where it crosses with the King’s Road.

The view is still empty of any banners and the wind is silent of any horses or clanging armories that Sansa feels her nerves failing her again. The more of her waiting, the more her chest tightens this time not of elation but of panic.

She lets herself forget the pressure of it, but perhaps since she has already shared her undying gratitude down in the crypts, lifting some bit of weight off her shoulders, there is nothing left for her to fret about except for his return.

Jon is here, she desperately reiterates to her brain.

Jon is coming.

And Sansa does not know what to do.

The anxiety is eating up the last of her patience that while she longs to see his face after moons and moons of separation, the fear now creeps up in her head and plants the utterly worse thought of all:

_What damages has this separation already brought about?_

Jon’s silence in his letters, while she knows were rational if they were to keep this alliance safe and secure, speaks greatly to her insecurities as a leader, as a player in this game, as a woman in this world of men; as the lady that waits for him to come home.

As of this moment, she doesn’t know anything except for Jon’s—or perhaps even Davos’—words from the short letters.

The alliance is made. Help is coming. The Others can be defeated.

But at what costs?

Sansa fidgets and holds on to her skirt once again. She feels that any moment now she would faint. With even the tiniest of details plaguing her thoughts, this unpreparedness overwhelms her again. Because as she thinks about it, will she give Jon a hug? Will he come closer to her or will she be the one to walk towards him, considering he is the King? What kind of dynamic should they play in front of the entire household after not seeing each other for so long?

Does he like the south more than he likes the north; the warmth of sun than the comforts of the snow? Perhaps, he has found confidence in another that the empty letters were deliberate so as to spare her feelings. Sansa knows of the whispers all over Westeros that despite reassurance of the lords that the true beauty is her, Sansa is not sure.

Daenerys Targaryen is touted to be a beauty in her own right. Perhaps, no man can resist.

It strikes something inside of her that before the madness of the waiting takes over, Sansa turns to a servant girl.

“I’d like to retire and take a bath. The cold is getting to me.” she orders.

Surprised but dutiful, the servant nods and walks inside the keep. Few men and women glances her way but no one dares to question the Lady of Winterfell. Only Brienne has the courage to do so.

“Are you sure, my lady?” she whispers, frowning. “Won’t you like to see the King first?”

Sansa takes a deep breath to feign indifference. “I am sure there would be plenty of time later at the small feast.”

Brienne still looks at her warily but gives her a nod. “Of course, let me walk—”

“No, please.” Sansa raises her hand. “Stay here. Make sure everyone is in their place.”

She does not wait for Brienne to respond before walking away and into the keep, only the sound of her boots keeping her company. Then when she’s finally far from everyone’s view, Sansa runs to her chambers slowing down only when she sees the maid arranging her bath oils behind the wooden divider.

“Do you prefer the citrus or the lavender, milady?” the girl asks brightly, pretending perhaps not to notice that something is amiss with her. Truly, she is one of Sansa’s favorites. But still, even the girl’s friendly face cannot appease whatever is crumbling inside of her.

Sansa just decidedly wants to be alone.

“Forgive me, but I just now wish to lay in my bed.” Sansa tells as an excuse.

“Oh, are you not feeling well, milady?” the maid asks in panic. “Do you want me to get a maester—”

Sansa shakes her head and almost pleads for the girl to leave. Reluctantly, after a few more of Sansa’s insistence, the maid finally walks away and leaves her to her solitude.

As soon as the chamber door closes, a deep exhale emits out of Sansa’s chest and almost instantly, she hears herself sobbing, her eyes blurring with tears. She finds the nearest table to support herself as her heaving continues.

She wonders, will the fear ever leave her?

The fear of being abandoned, the fear of not being enough, the fear that the Lannisters and the Boltons have imprinted in her that she is nothing but a pawn to this game no matter how hard she tries to dissolve it? She is nothing, perhaps, in this world of myths and dragon queens and dead men walking.

She is powerless. And she is disposable.

Sansa collapses finally to the chair for the gravity of her emotions quickly devours her remaining strength. Mayhap, she shall just stay in this room until the red of her hair turns white so nobody can bother her any longer. She does not also bother to stop herself from crying because it’s the only thing that comforts her.

It’s the only thing she knows so well since she was a little girl. And if before her childish tears have brought men like Robb and Theon to get her anything she wants—lemon cakes, winter roses, horseback riding—Sansa knows tears from a lady of a Great House is a sign of weakness.

And the last person she scours for some last bit of hope and confidence now also feels unreachable to her.

 _Jon_.

Jon is so much more now.

Revered, god-like, fearsome.

King.

She won’t be able to keep up.

Sansa closes her eyes, feeling more of the loneliness seep in despite the fullness of the castle. She blocks any other thoughts or sounds and wishes for sleep to simply consumer her. Maybe tomorrow, when everyone else is still in bed, she can sneak into the godswoods and say a small prayer to clear her thoughts. A prayer for Robb and Rickon, for mother and father, Arya and Bran… even for Jon…

 

Sansa wakes with a start.

She sees the canopy of her bed and the fur blanket envelops her warmly. The fire in the hearth is dwindling but still faintly emits embers to slightly light her chambers. Sansa does not remember taking herself to the bed.

But she is here, snug and warm.

The window has also been shut to keep the cold and the quietness of the keep lets her know that the feast might already be over. The notion jolts her even more.

There is no denying. Jon is already within the castle as of the moment.

She stirs finally to let it sink in but as she does, a shadow also moves from the other side of the room, sitting straightly and pulling itself from the shadows.

“They said you were feeling unwell.”

Sansa stops, her heart hammering in her chest for this is not real. She did not cry herself to sleep only for him to be in her chambers and see her in her weakest; where perhaps he found her asleep on the chair he is now sitting on with cheeks blotchy, eyes puffy, and body slumped unceremoniously.

She pulls the furs closer to her chest.

“You were not in the courtyard when I arrived.” he says so quietly. Then, he stands from the chair and Sansa blatantly avoids looking at his gaze, staring directly at the opposite side of where he is going.

But it’s all wasted effort. She feels the bed dips as he now sits beside her. The closeness threatens to suffocate her and make her cry even more tears but perhaps, he knows this too that his immediate reaction is to comfort her.

Unsure as she feels his hand shake, Jon reaches to tuck in a strand of her away from her face.

“Sansa,” he pleads. “Look at me.”

She doesn’t let herself move, relieving the pain and the insecurity from this afternoon and the fear that this, whatever they have, is all for naught.

A product of desperation.

Jon removes his hand from her face before sighing.

“I missed you.” he whispers. “I wanted to come home as soon as I can but Daenerys—”

Sansa snaps her head to face him, thanking the gods that the darkness has concealed most of his features for she doesn’t know the extent of what she would—or would not—do once she sees his face.

Is he happy? Lonely? Maybe regretful that he still has to deal with her?

“Sansa,” Jon says again as soon as he sees her face. Then his hand is on her cheek again, his thumb rubbing against her skin. “ _Such beauty._ ”

Faintly, Sansa can recognize a smile on his face.

“I’ve missed you,” he reiterates, moving his head closer to hers. “If you are angry with me, and gods, _you are angry with me_ , can you postpone your vitriol at least until tomorrow? I have not seen you in moons and I would like to get my fair share of your time even by just holding your hand.”

Sansa’s heart clenches and she feels her eyes water.

Jon seems to see this as well and he finally moves to rest his forehead on hers and Sansa is taken-aback with the fullness of his features. He has his eyes closed but the sadness and the frown is still evident on his face.

“Tell me,” he begs again. “Tell me what brought this on, tell me why you are hurting. I cannot—”

“Jon,” she finally croaks. He opens his eyes to meet her teary ones.

“ _Sansa…_ ”

Shyly, and mustering all the strength she has, Sansa finally reaches for him and runs a hand on his cheek. And the words that next slips out of her tongue are raw with disbelief and agony for surely, this is not real. He has not come into her chambers and tucked her in and watched her sleep only to get his fill of her because as he said, he missed her.

It’s not real, is it?

“You’ve come back.” she says hoarsely, studying him now. “You’ve come back to me.”

Jon nudges her nose with his and offers a bashful smile of his own. “Of course, I did. Where else should I go?”

“Stay in the south?” she wonders. “Do you not prefer the sun over the cold?”

Sansa cannot make herself directly ask the question: _Do you not prefer the Dragon Queen over me?_

But Jon only frowns, “I never liked the heat. And the cold gets me to snuggle you closer.”

“ _Jon_ ,” Sansa warns but the laughter that vibrates through him seems to continuously run through her. Weakly, she smiles.

Jon traces her lips then, contented with what she has offered.

“There…” he says. “I’ve missed this too.”

“Tell me about the parlay.” Sansa tries to change the subject.

But Jon just shakes his head. “We have the morrow to talk about that.”

Sansa wants to push further and ask him about the Dragon Queen; if she is as beautiful as they say, if he’s seen the dragons, if they are real as the White Walkers. But Jon just continues to take his fill of her where his eyes roam all over her face as if he, too, cannot believe she is there.

She even hears him _foolishly_ whisper, “We have all the time in the world, my love.”

So then bluntly, in retaliation of his tomfoolery (even if not quite, truly) and feeling her cheeks redden, Sansa playfully asks nonetheless, “Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

Jon stills, surprised at her boldness, but his determination after is undeniable that when his lips touches hers—and he ever so slightly moves her so he can lay by her side—Sansa feels something so foreign, honest, and deep within her.

She deciphers it the way he is discovering her lips again and then there, when he whispers her name like some sort of salvation, she remembers.

She remembers what it is called.

She remembers that she can be it once more.

Moving her lips with the same rapport as his, returning the passion he is uninhibitedly showing, Sansa swallows in with pride the word she once had forgotten.

 _Fearless_.

She is fearless.

Jon groans as Sansa deepens the kiss and she feels his hand hold her tighter, bunching up her already tousled hair.

“Sansa,” he breathes once they part. “ _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa_ …”

Like a prayer. His prayer.

“Jon,” she can only also whisper in return.

Silently, and not letting her go, he moves and pushes the furs to let himself in and envelop her fully. Sansa shivers at the touch; of his skin touching her skin, however small and timid it may seem. Where it is only his hands on her hands, his cheek on her neck, and his arms on her arms.

There is time for more later. Tonight, this is enough.

She feels him tenderly kiss her neck as if to soothe and lull her to sleep. But when Sansa finally feels the slumber and she needs to blink twice to keep herself awake, Jon lovingly murmurs behind her.

“We are alright, Sansa.”

Then after another kiss, “ _We are alright_.”

* * *

 


End file.
